Getting Better
by LittlePippin76
Summary: John was shot. That had happened. That had happened right in front of Sherlock. Then John got so very ill, but he held on. Now he's back at home, trying to sort out his mixed up head and his weakened body. And he's trying to sort out Sherlock too. Eventual non-graphic slash. Not easy to say genre; some humour, some romance, some hurt.
1. Sleepwalking

**This one slots into my Empty House/The Man Who Holds the Key set; Sherlock died and returned, John got shot working on a subsequent case with him. They live together in Baker Street, there is no Mary, no Scarlet, no Benjamin - it's just the two of them. It's got vague elements of a case in there, and it's going to be slash, but it's taking it's sweet time about getting there. I hope you enjoy the slow burn.**

**Pip.**

* * *

Chapter 1

Sherlock woke up. It was dark in his room, but he was aware of a dark shadowy shape looming by his shelves. The panic died away quickly, and he sighed.

"John?"

"Yeah."

"Is there something you need?"

"I don't know." John's voice was vague and confused. "I've got to do that thing… the thing… you know the thing."

Sherlock sat up and looked tiredly at him. "John, you're asleep."

"No, I don't think so. We need to… the thing with the er… the er… hippos."

"Hippos?"

"No, not hippos. Horses."

"I really think you're asleep."

"No, I'm not; I've got to do the thing..."

"With the horses, yes, you said. Maybe we could talk about it in a few hours. It's the middle of the night."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Hence the darkness. Go back to bed now."

"Do you think?"

"Yes. Do you remember where your bed is?"

John snorted. "Yes! Of course!" He padded away.

Sherlock lay annoyed in his bed for a few seconds until his niggling conscience got the better of him, and he launched himself out of his bed and stomped through to the living room, where, as he had predicted, he found John standing in the middle of the room, chewing his lip.

"John, your room's upstairs."

It took a few seconds for John to register him. When he finally did he leapt back in panic and backed into the table.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the living daylights out of me!"

"Ah, now you're awake then."

"Yes of course I'm bloody awake! Jesus!" He calmed his breathing while holding his chest.

"Any clues as to how you ended up in the living room?"

John looked around and a look of embarrassment slowly crept across his face. "Oh. OK. Sorry."

"It's fine. You should go back to bed now though."

"Yeah. You too. I'm really sorry if I disturbed you."

"It's fine," Sherlock said again. He turned and waved his hand as he walked away. "Apparently there's something we need to sort out tomorrow with regards to hippos or horses. I think it can probably wait though."

"Right," John muttered quietly.

He watched Sherlock's door close behind him, waited a few seconds, and slowly climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. It wasn't as much of a mess as it sometimes was after a sleepwalking session. On one morning he'd woken on the floor underneath every item of clothing from his wardrobe, which he'd neatly arranged into colour order. At least on that occasion he hadn't left his room. More often he'd wander around the flat, sometimes going as far as the corridor outside Mrs Hudson's rooms, but more regularly he'd go to find Sherlock. Sherlock would either just turn him around and send him back to bed, or wake him up and shout a bit depending on his mood and when he'd last slept.

That didn't happen often though, and John was impressed that he'd been so calm tonight. There hadn't been a case since John had left the hospital two weeks before. Sherlock's mood had moved through acerbic, beyond irritable, and was slowly getting to dangerously unstable. He was trying so hard to hold it together too, clearly for the sake of John's health, and that was causing both of them further irritation. Even Mrs Hudson had noticed. She'd ordered them out of the house for a nice walk together following a particularly tense lunchtime several days ago. Unfortunately the meal had been too rich for John, and the walk had come too soon afterwards, and though he'd put up a monumental effort, he'd finally vomited behind a convenient tree, and Sherlock had brought him home again, both of them feeling more miserable than ever.

John gathered his bedding now and threw it onto his bed, getting in and trying to arrange it into a vaguely comfortable position. There was a sudden twinge of pain in his side, just above his left hip, but he dismissed it as psychosomatic.

He lay still and wondered whether he'd sleep again. His hand crept to touch the small scar in his side. It looked almost inconspicuous on the outside, fairly round, only slightly puckered and already fading to a pale pink. He suspected it would be silvery before the end of the year. It felt ridiculous, given the amount of chaos it had caused.

Recovery from the shooting had started off quite smoothly. John had been able to sit up and laugh with Sherlock almost immediately. The trouble was that he'd stupidly, really stupidly, pushed it too hard and too fast and had gone on a completely pointless bathroom trip the day after the initial surgery and had fainted, bursting his stitches. A cross doctor had patched him back up again, but it was too late, and the wound in his intestine turned septic. He'd then endured three days of sickness, pain and delirium before he started to drift back towards stability. It had been a further week before he had reached a level where he might be able to survive out of hospital. Even two weeks on, he found the experience had left him weak, tired, and with a ridiculously sensitive stomach.

He knew that Sherlock had stayed with him the whole time that he had been critically ill, and he resented it. Sherlock was a selfish, self-contained individual, who had no aptitude for nursing at all. John had seen patients in the condition that he had been in, and he knew the grimness of it all. He would have preferred for Sherlock never to have seen him that way. He felt he would have handled his recovery better if all the nasty business had been left to the nurses and doctors, and Sherlock could just have returned to the hospital to pick him up when he was better. Instead, the moments of his humiliation replayed themselves through his head over and over again, and so he resented it.

It had hurt Sherlock too. He was exhausted in a way that John had never seen before, and there were dark shadows behind his eyes. Both men had taken to hiding any form of pain or discomfort from the other, and that was causing even more strain and upset between them.

And of course John's subconscious was letting him down badly. He still wasn't able to eat his fill, so hunger caused him to sleep badly and the sleepwalking that he'd grown out of thirty years ago had returned with a vengeance.

To make matters even worse, that traitorous subconscious seemed to have developed a ridiculous need to be as close to Sherlock as possible. He'd noticed it when he was awake too; some level of panic seemed to be fixed just under his skin, and when Sherlock wasn't in the house, John would be anxious and out of sorts until he returned. This was something he could deal with well enough when he was awake, but as soon as he was asleep, his mind would happily walk him down to Sherlock's room to steal things from his shelves, or to sit outside his door to be tripped up over in the morning, or, on one truly humiliating occasion, to get into his bed with him. Not next to him, oh no, John's subconscious was far too cruel for that. He'd got into the bed and climbed on top of him like a cat looking for a comfortable place to sleep, and Sherlock had woken up confused and had fought John off. John had woken up being pinned down by a disturbed, dishevelled and quite startlingly naked detective after what had been the least coordinated, but strangest bout of Greco Roman wrestling that the world had ever seen. Or more accurately and more fortunately; had never seen.

John had scurried away without even managing to apologise, and had slept very late the following morning. There had been several moments when both occupants of 221B had wondered if he'd ever leave his bedroom again.

It had not been lost on him that Sherlock had taken to wearing pyjama trousers at night.

He hoped desperately for a case. A nice murder or something of that ilk. He'd just have to deal with whether he'd be physically able to accompany Sherlock when it happened. At this moment, just a case, any case, just something to distract their minds and relieve some of the damned tension in the flat.

He sat up again to eat three of the crackers that he kept by the side of his bed, and then he settled down again. The image of Sherlock's back, taught and strong, as he went back into his bedroom flittered across John's mind. He winced, cringed and rolled over to bury his face into his pillows. It caused a slight pull in his side, but it was comforting. He went back to sleep.


	2. Breakfast

Chapter 2

John walked down the stairs feeling hollow through hunger. The sounds of an argument drifted up towards him.

"I have not touched your lighter, Sherlock Holmes, and I'll thank you to stop waving that thing at me!"

There was the sound of something heavy and metallic being dropped on the kitchen table, and Sherlock swept into the living room with his dressing gown flapping along behind him and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He rounded on John as soon as he'd entered the room, ready to accuse him too, but he faltered before he did.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I'm all right. Are you?"

Sherlock took the cigarette from his mouth. "I can't find my stupid cigarette lighter."

"Is it the stupid one that you need specifically, or will any of the others do?" John asked.

Sherlock actually gave him a half smile, and John responded in kind. It was a split second though, before Sherlock sighed piteously.

"God damn this house!" he shouted at the ceiling. "Nothing stays put!"

"Well if you let me just tidy up for you a little…" Mrs Hudson started.

"Argh!" Sherlock shouted, eyes bulging, into her face.

Mrs Hudson was nonplussed, and she stepped past him to hand John a steaming mug of coffee. "I'll put your breakfast on in just a moment, John."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He sipped the coffee which had been watered down to produce a brackish cup of hot liquid. Milk was on the list of things John couldn't quite manage at the moment, and he couldn't drink tea without milk, so weak black coffee it was.

He sighed inwardly until he noticed Sherlock watching him intently, and he took another mouthful and attempted to savour it.

In fact, breakfast was one of the few meals he could usually enjoy. He could manage to eat a whole boiled or poached egg with just over one slice of toasted soldiers as long as the butter was spread thinly. He could also manage toast with a variety of spreads, or he could have porridge. It was true that the porridge needed to be made with water, which took some of the fun out of it, but he could eat it with any dried fruit that weren't apricots.

To be a fair, he could probably manage apricots too, but he was refusing point blank to try following an event on his last full day in hospital. It had been day seventeen and his desperation to leave the place was overwhelming. Cross Doctor had agreed, despite the continual digestive problems, if, _if_ John could produce some evidence that his bowel was functioning again. He wanted solid evidence.

After the doctor had left the room, John had exploded in a torrent of expletives and railed against the obvious injustice of the situation, and Sherlock had made a frankly astonishing proposal.

It had certainly stopped John in his tracks.

"Really?" he had said. "Honestly, Sherlock, I'm not sure I ever thought the day would come when someone would offer me a turd. I don't mean 'hand me a sample'; that's happened a lot. I mean, give me an actual turd for my very own."

"It's a practical solution," Sherlock had shrugged. "It would resolve the current issue."

"Yes. Yes it might. On the other hand, it's probably quite obvious to a top gastroenterologist whether a specific sample came from someone who's recovering from a major intestinal infection, and someone who's… well… you."

"I'm sure I could find a way to…"

"No, Sherlock! Please don't suggest somehow disguising your poo to look like mine. It's just too bizarre. No, instead pop out to the shop to buy some dried apricots. They'll be good for me anyway, and they'll get things started."

"My way would be quicker."

"Not if I eat enough apricots."

Sherlock had conceded and purchased the apricots. John had looked at the bag with trepidation, but had gone at them with determination. They hadn't needed to wait long after all. It was about twenty minutes later, when Lestrade was visiting to check on John's progress. He was sharing a mildly entertaining story about the goings on at Scotland Yard, when John, quite without warning, projectile vomited a kilo and a half of dried apricots over the bed, himself, and also Sherlock who was perched on the bed by John's knees.

They'd laughed. Well, he and Sherlock had laughed, primarily at the look of horrified disgust on Lestrade's face as Sherlock hopped around brushing half-digested chunks of apricots from his hair. They'd laughed themselves to near hysteria.

From what John could recall, that was the last time he and Sherlock had laughed at something that was genuinely, albeit disgustingly, funny.

Thinking about it logically, he could see that he had already recovered sufficiently that that sort of thing didn't creep up on him anymore. There was some differentiation now between his usual state and his nausea, and this made a pleasant relief from those days and days of feeling constantly miserable and in pain and being randomly sick throughout with little, if any, warning. He knew he ought to see this as a good thing and as a sign that he really was getting better. But with the broken nights and the limited diet, he was struggling to find bright sides of anything.

He sat down at the table. It was a cold day, but the sun was beginning to make a little effort to warm the world, and John let it wash over him. It did make him feel slightly more energised and calm.

"What on earth are you doing now?" Mrs Hudson said.

John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was on his knees with his rear poking out into the room, and his head in the lit fireplace.

"You'll burn yourself!" John said.

"Nope, just a bit singed," Sherlock said, sitting back and sucking on his cigarette happily. He leaned against his chair and rubbed his forehead and hair and seemed satisfied that none of it was irreparably damaged.

"You really will be the death of me," John muttered.

He regretted it instantly as Sherlock's face grew hard and cold again.

"I didn't mean that how it sounded," John said quietly.

Sherlock grunted in response. At least he didn't storm out the room or shout though. His cigarette stayed in his hand, hovering over the hearth, and it slowly burned.

"You're not allowed to smoke in here." Mrs Hudson reminded him.

"I'm not," Sherlock said. He took another pull and blew the smoke towards the fire.

"That really doesn't work," John said.

"Is the entire day going to be focussed around getting at me?" Sherlock asked. "Should I just go back to bed now?"

"Maybe you'll get a case," John said.

Sherlock grunted again.

"A case would be lovely," Mrs Hudson said. She put a plate with a boiled egg and toast cut into neat soldiers in front of John. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and he smiled at her. "I was also thinking," she went on, "about couple's counselling for you two."

Both men stared at her.

"It's not just for married people anymore," she said. "I just thought you should think about it."

The two men continued to stare. John waited for one of them to point out that they weren't a couple, but he couldn't quite remember whose turn it was. He picked up his spoon and cracked his egg. Sherlock continued to frown into the room, and Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes at the pair of them and went downstairs.

John turned his attention to his egg and coated a soldier in yolk and ate it. He closed his eyes to enjoy it. It really was one of his few pleasures at the moment, and it was quite hard not to just shove all the toast into his mouth at once and demand seven more eggs.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "Though if you did feel that this counselling thing would aid your recovery, then I'd be perfectly willing to try it."

"It wouldn't," John said firmly. "Besides, the whole point of couples counselling is that it helps both parties equally. So if you don't need counselling…"

"I don't need counselling."

"Then there's really no point. If I thought there was a need, and I mean _if_ I did, then I'd contact someone and arrange sessions for me.

"Not Ella again. She was rubbish."

"Yes, I've heard your thoughts on Ella, thank you."

"She's the one who got you writing that rubbish in the first place."

"Yes, you've said."

"Good."

John concentrated on his egg again, taking the time to properly chew each mouthful, assessing whether he was ready for just one more bite. He chose to ignore any concerned looks that were focussed in his direction. He managed seven soldiers, which was a personal best. He smiled, satisfied and sat very still to digest. Sherlock's eyes were still fixed on him.

"Do you think you can find something else to gawp at?" John asked.

"Such as what? Now Moran and Able are behind bars, this whole city and everything in it is utterly boring."

John watched him, watching back. "What shall we do today? Should we go and irritate Mycroft or should we go and irritate Lestrade?"

"Why irritate either?"

"So they'll give us something to do to make us go away."

Sherlock's face flashed with interest before returning to his look of mild concern. "Are you sure you can manage a trip?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"It's just last time we went for a walk…"

"No, last time we went out, it wasn't for a walk, it was for some sort of speed walking time-trial. If we go at a normal, human walking pace I'll be fine."

"You could have just told me to slow down."

"I'm telling you now. Give me half an hour for a shower and to get dressed, and we'll go and irritate someone."

"I look forward to it."


	3. Men's room

Chapter 3

John showered slowly, enjoying the privacy and the sense that he was able to do something normal in a perfectly ordinary way. He pulled on his dressing gown and went upstairs to dress.

His clothes depressed him, but he tried to push that thought from his mind. It was difficult, though, when his trousers needed to be pulled in tightly with a belt and they hung off his legs. His t-shirt and shirts too were strangely billowy, and he found he couldn't settle into this new, unintentional look. He missed his neatness. He could, of course, just buy some more clothes, but he hated the idea. He wanted to feel that he was going to build himself up again, and his wardrobe would feel like his own once more, rather than feeling like the cast downs of some mythical older brother.

Both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had bought him new clothes. The former had been both calm and authoritative as she handed him new pyjamas.

"It's a gift," she had said. "You need to be comfortable while you convalesce, so let's not discuss it any further." She'd closed the conversation down, and while John had felt childish and silly, he did also feel better in pyjamas that didn't threaten to drop down to his ankles every time he stood up.

Sherlock had attempted subtlety.

"I accidentally bought clothes that don't fit me," he had said, nodding to three full bags on the kitchen table. "You'll have to have them."

John had stared, his fury being fed by his humiliation, until he'd just given up fighting it and had yelled at Sherlock to take them all back.

They had shouted at each other for a while, Sherlock refusing to go on a second, pointless trip around town, and John refusing to be dressed by someone else like a child. They had felt better for it though, briefly. John had eventually carried the bags to his room, with muttered thanks and statements of paying the money back to Sherlock. Sherlock had accepted this with sulky agreement, and the pair of them had actually spent the afternoon in a vague sort of truce, even managing to have an interesting conversation about books.

John hadn't worn the clothes though. He hadn't even removed them from their packaging. Sherlock had noticed, obviously, but he hadn't commented.

They were sitting at John's feet now as he rummaged through his drawers for a pair of socks. Something hard knocked against the wood, and he frowned and rummaged further to find out what it was. It was a green plastic cigarette lighter. Further investigation unearthed a further three lighters, one of which, a blue one, had been tucked into a pair of grey socks. John rubbed at his forehead a bit, and then he put the socks on. He stopped briefly to find a permanent marker in his personal desk.

He wandered back downstairs to where Sherlock was still sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him, like a thoroughly bored ragdoll.

"Here, catch," he said, tossing the blue lighter to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it with the snap of his hand, glanced briefly, and then again, turning it around to read the word 'STUPID' written in black block capitals.

"I found these ones too," John said, dropping the others onto the seat of Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock rifled through the pile looking sifting out 'BASTARD,' and 'FUCKING'.

"Are you giving me some sort of message?" he asked.

"No, though I can see how it might read that way. I just thought I'd name them based on some of the adjectives you've shouted about them over the years. I like the idea of your general rants being a bit more specific."

Sherlock sniggered. "Where were they?"

"Sock drawer. Nope, I have absolutely no idea when or why I put them there."

"Fair enough. Give me a minute to dress and I'll be right with you."

Sherlock had washed and dressed quickly and gathered his coat from the hook behind their door. He shrugged it on and turned to the coffee table to grab an apple, which he slipped into his pocket.

"Do you want some dates too?" he asked John.

"No, and I'm way ahead of you." He pulled out an apple from his own pocket and held it up for Sherlock. "You keep that one; you need to eat too."

"I have eaten. I had breakfast."

"What did you have?"

"A boiled egg and toast."

"No, Sherlock, that was me."

"It was me too! There really is no reason for you to monitor my food intake. You just pay attention to your own."

"I am paying attention to my own!" John snapped. "I'm paying attention to little else! What I can and can't eat at any given time is etched, permanently on my brain! I don't get to delete this stuff!"

He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose and took a second or two to calm down.

"Sorry," he said. "Let's just go, shall we?"

"Fine." Sherlock looked John up and down. "Have you…"

"What."

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Let's go." He stormed out of the door and ran downstairs.

John followed at a more comfortable rate. By the time he'd reached the street, Sherlock had flagged down a cab and was waiting impatiently with one foot resting on its floor. John made a point of locking the front door slowly.

They settled next to each other in the cab, and John had a moment of enjoying the distant familiarity of the act.

"I was thinking about the counselling," Sherlock said. John gave him a look. "No, I'm not suggesting that there's anything wrong at all, but you might find him helpful to investigate the source of your intensely targeted kleptomania."

John flushed slightly. "I'll try and get it under control."

"I know, and I'm not blaming you or accusing you. I'm just saying, something about you – I have no idea what; we know it's not my area – is causing you to compulsively steal from me. When you're asleep. It seems like the sort of thing a curious person might ask a therapist about."

"Thank you."

"Don't get snippy."

"I _always_ return your stuff."

"I know, I'm not disputing that."

John looked away and huffed. Sherlock gave a very quiet sigh, which annoyed John further. He reminded himself though, that Sherlock had quite precisely chosen to talk about the theft, and not the strange, obsessive clinginess. He knew he should appreciate that, but he ended up resenting that too.

They continued in silence until they reached New Scotland Yard and they marched up the steps and through the foyer together. Sherlock pressed the lift button and rocked on his feet while he waited, and John tried his hardest to breathe in a comfortable, natural rhythm.

They got out on the third floor, neither of them commenting that they'd used the stairs countless times in the past. Things were reasonably settled until they passed the Gents' toilets.

"Give me a tick," John said, stopping.

"Why? What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

John would have liked to be mollified by the look on Sherlock's face, which told him that he was already regretting the questions. Unfortunately, his irritation started to build again.

"I'm fine," he huffed. "I've had coffee; I need to pee."

"Fine, I'll come with you."

"You really won't!" John replied.

"I've had coffee too!" Sherlock snapped. "I also need to urinate."

"No you don't!" John shouted.

"Yes I do! Occasionally I do need to…"

He stopped, and both men simultaneously noticed that they had attracted an audience. John stopped himself, turned on his heel, and walked through the men's room door. They stood side by side at the urinals, both staring fixedly at the wall.

John noted that Sherlock resisted saying; 'I told you so!' He found himself struggling to be equally mature.

"See," he said, when he'd finished. "I needed to pee. I did not need to vomit, faint, fall unconscious, or have a seizure. I just needed to pee."

"Fine!" Sherlock yelled, rounding on him. "I understand! I get it! You're better than me at shaking off all the emotional nonsense that apparently comes with watching someone you care about nearly die! I would like to point out that you've had far more practice than I have, but even if you hadn't, you were clearly born with the skill of caring for someone without letting it distract you! Well done you! Have a bloody medal!"

John took a pace back, bewildered, and Sherlock turned away and walked to look at the wall for a while before he calmed himself and walked back.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Clearly it isn't your fault."

"No, it's…." John floundered. "I'm sorry. I think I may have been feeling so sorry for myself I hadn't thought about how things must have been for you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think that's true. I've seen you fret and worry and try to hide it. I can tell when you're doing that, by the way."

"Yes."

"Let's just…." He turned to wash his hands.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, "when you died… well, you didn't die, but when I thought you had died, it crippled me. It literally floored me; I could barely move for weeks and weeks. I do actually know how that feels."

"But I had gone!" Sherlock protested. "I had actually, to all intents and purposes, certainly from your perspective, died. You didn't. It was close for a few hours there, far too close for comfort, but you did live, so why can I not just shake that image from my head? How did you stop the image of me dead and bleeding at the bottom of Bart's hospital from replaying and replaying in your head?"

The door opened and someone neither of them had met before walked in. Sherlock relaxed, clearly feeling that the opportunity had passed, and John washed his hands. He followed Sherlock into the corridor.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. It was clear that Sherlock didn't want to talk anymore, but he turned to look at him anyway. "Sherlock, I didn't. It's all still there."

"Then how do you…" Sherlock stopped, apparently uncertain about what he really wanted to know.

"Perhaps just give it some time," John said.

He turned Sherlock with a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently along the corridor.


	4. Lestrade

**I keep forgetting to say - the prompt from this whole story came from Rustyla, who pointed out that I've done a couple of slash fics with Sherlock in control, and she asked to see how I'd handle John having the infatuation and Sherlock being oblivious. Thank you, Rustyla! Pip xxx**

Chapter 4

John didn't press the matter further, much as he might want to. How Sherlock Holmes viewed him, John Watson, was still a mystery to him. He had allocated the label 'friend' to Sherlock quite quickly. He'd started viewing Sherlock as 'best friend' at some point, even though he was sure he'd grown beyond the stage when he needed a hierarchy for friends. He flattered himself that he was Sherlock's 'best friend' too. Sherlock had implied that he was in fact 'only friend', but he had reason to doubt this, having seen how Sherlock acted around Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper.

He had certainly considered the two of them to be very close. He'd been so shaken by Sherlock's faked death that he'd started to re-evaluate all the definitions of 'best friends' that he'd had before.

He'd tried to justify it; to tell himself that Sherlock didn't feel those sorts of emotions, and that he couldn't manage to empathise for whatever reason, and that in Sherlock's world people, in general, didn't matter. Though he, John, clearly mattered more than the other seven billion people on the earth, Sherlock still couldn't be expected to understand the weight of that grief. In that way, he had been able to tentatively put himself back on Sherlock's best friend list, where he felt, perhaps irrationally, that he wanted to be.

It still felt uncomfortable though, that he hadn't warranted protection from that pain. It still hurt and it made everything else doubly confusing.

And now, it would seem now that Sherlock perhaps could understand that pain. He couldn't before; all of John's excuses about that still stood, but at some point when he was in hospital, it would appear that something had broken through Sherlock's insensitivity, and it would appear that that something was him.

It was possible, he thought, that Sherlock Holmes might actually, despite everything, despite himself, that he might just love him.

As a friend.

Perhaps as a best friend.

And of course, there was the small matter of the kiss…

They walked straight into Lestrade's office and all of these thoughts were driven from his mind in the face of Greg's obvious pleasure to see him there.

"John! Mate!" he walked around the desk to give him a warm hug with much backslapping. "Wow, you're looking well!"

John was about to comment that he actually looked pale, elderly and emaciated, when he remembered that the last time Greg had seen him he'd been blowing regurgitated apricot from his nose while giggling like an idiot.

"Thank you," he said. "You're not looking too bad yourself. Is it as quiet in here as it appears from the newspapers?"

"I don't know; are you allowed to talk shop?"

"I bloody well am."

"Good, well that's good. Shall we go downstairs for a cup of tea? I'm gagging for a break."

"John can't have tea at the moment," Sherlock said.

"Which would be a problem if it was actual tea," John replied. "But I know that what's offered here is tea-coloured water, so I think I might just risk it."

Sherlock looked like he might argue about this, but he held himself back. Lestrade frowned briefly at the pair of them, and then led them out the door. They wandered back down to the staff café on the ground floor and settled down with their drinks.

"So are you really OK?" Lestrade asked, giving John something of a suspicious look.

"I am really OK. It's going to take a while to get back to full strength, but I'm getting there. What's been happening here? What happened with the memory stick thing?"

"Oh the bloody memory stick," Greg muttered.

"Hey, watch it," John returned. "I nearly gave my life getting that thing for you!"

"And we really do appreciate it. Trouble is, Mycroft was a little bit over optimistic about recovering the data. Apparently his team have made it safe enough, sort of, but, well, we still don't know much about it."

"But you've had nearly two months!"

"_He's_ had nearly two months. It's nothing to do with me anymore."

John sat back to think about this. Of course the most significant part of the whole fiasco was that Moriarty was dead, and Moran and Able were both behind bars, and that various people were making some headway into dismantling the whole of Moriarty's organisation. On the other hand, the fact that the memory stick had been of so little use to them was a little disappointing to say the least. He thought about the fight that he'd had with Able. He was barely able to piece together what had happened and in what order, but he quite clearly remembered the feeling of triumph when he'd wrapped his hand around the memory stick. After that, it was all pain and fear.

He looked up to find Sherlock and Lestrade both watching him.

"Fair enough," he said. "So there's not much to do there. What about anything new?" He hid his face in his tea.

"Well, there is one thing that came up today. Young woman, apparent suicide. I know how much you like apparent suicides, Sherlock. Would you like to take a look?"

"How apparent is the suicide?" Sherlock asked.

"She poisoned herself in a locked room and left a note."

"So why are you suspicious?"

"Dunno. I just am. Something doesn't ring true, you know."

"Ah yes," Sherlock said. "The gut feelings of the Metropolitan police force. Where would we be without them?"

"Well, this young woman seems to have killed herself, and her family have to just basically deal with that. It's not nice. It would be good to put any doubts to rest for them."

"So?"

"Well, if there is a murderer, he's still at large."

Sherlock shrugged and started piling sugar into his coffee.

"We have literally nothing better to do," John said. "We could either take a quick look at this, or we can go home and watch the clock ticking. Again."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose so. I suppose we could take a look while we wait for something more interesting to happen."

"Marvellous, thanks," Lestrade said. "Girl's name was Sofia something or other I forget…"

"I see you've still got your finger right on the beating pulse of crime," Sherlock muttered.

"I'll get her file from my office if I can find it. I can't take you to the crime scene until after lunch, but the body's with Molly if you want to see that first."

"You mean at the mortuary," Sherlock said.

"Actually no, I mean with Molly. At Bart's mortuary."

"She's back?" John asked.

"She is," Lestrade said smiling. "There didn't seem any reason for her to stay in Bath now he's back," he nodded at Sherlock who stirred his tea. "So she arranged for a transfer back. It's really nice having her home again."

"What do you mean 'home again'?" Sherlock asked. "She's someone you see in the course of your work not more than once or twice a month."

"Well yeah, but it's still nice to see a familiar face sometimes."

"Surely most of the…" Sherlock started.

"Wait a second," John said, speaking over him, and eyeing Lestrade shrewdly. "Is it possible that you're _particularly_ pleased to have Molly back?"

"Well, you know," he shuffled uncomfortably, "she's a nice person…"

"Well yes she is. I know her quite well, of course, what with working at the hospital sometimes…"

"I know her best," Sherlock said.

He was ignored.

"You see, I'd have thought you'd need a bit more time to really get to know her," John persisted. "Possibly several dinners or lunches." He grinned in the face of Lestrade's discomfort. "Perhaps there have been emails. Or texts. Or Skype conversations while she was away…"

"All right!" Lestrade snapped. "Fine, fair enough. Fine. I may have chatted with her on a few occasions, just to keep her up to date with what was going on around here. She's a nice person and I was happy to take her out for a welcome home dinner. Or two."

"With candles," John said.

"This is boring me now," Sherlock announced. "I suppose we'd better get across to Bart's then, if we're going to bother with this thing. Have you finished with your tea coloured water?"

"I've finished," John said.

"I'd better get back to work anyhow," Lestrade said. "I'll text the address where she was found and meet you there at, what, two?"

"What are we going to do until two?" Sherlock snapped. "I won't need nearly that long with the body."

"Not even Molly's body?" John said quietly, and he was amused by Sherlock's confusion and Lestrade's furious blush and furious look. "Come on, let's go."

He stood and instantly the room swayed, and he needed to take hold of the back of the chair and breathe. Even Lestrade noticed

"Are you OK?" Lestrade asked, reaching to take his arm.

"Of course he's all right!" Sherlock snapped, batting his hand away. "He's convalescing and his blood pressure and blood sugar are unnaturally low. We expect this sort of thing."

John smiled wanly. "I'm fine," he said. "Like Doctor Holmes said; I just stood up too quickly."

"And he needs to eat his apple," Sherlock added.

"Yes, thank you, _Mother_. Let's go and find another cab."


	5. Molly

Chapter 5

They sat quietly in the cab. John slowly chewed his apple. Sherlock flicked through the manila file that Lestrade had given to them. There wasn't much there; just an incident report, a witness statement and two photographs. He put them aside and appeared to go into thinking mode, settling back quietly and staring, glassy eyed, out of the window. John took the opportunity to close his eyes for a while.

"We're here," Sherlock said, batting his hand some time later.

"I know, I wasn't asleep!" John said.

Sherlock ignored this, jumped out of the cab and walked off.

"I'll pay then," John muttered.

He fished in his coat for his wallet and picked up the folder, which Sherlock had discarded. He hurried to catch up with Sherlock, but Sherlock was already in the mortuary, shouting, by the time he reached him.

"Of course I can be in here!" he heard through the door. "Stop being a moron! Where is Molly Hooper? I want Molly Hooper, not you!"

"Lucky Molly Hooper," John muttered, and he went into the room. "Here, I have a letter from Detective Inspector Lestrade. Can we see Sofia Pennington's body please?" He gave the official note to a rather harried looking doctor.

"Fine," the doctor said eventually. "Someone should have called in advance though. I'll get the body."

Sherlock turned to look at John while the body was prepared. John could see him desperately trying to hold back the question.

"I'm fine," he said, putting Sherlock out of his misery. "I actually am fine, which is surprising and nice, despite having to practically run to get down here before you killed someone."

"I wouldn't actually have killed someone."

"You might have irritated them to death."

Sherlock smiled and seemed pleased with John's assurance. He turned as the body was wheeled towards him, and instantly absorbed himself in the job at hand. The pathologist disappeared from the room, and John leant against the wall to catch his breath and to watch Sherlock.

His thoughts wandered to Molly Hooper. So clearly, so obviously, so utterly besotted with Sherlock, while he was so completely oblivious to it. It did make sense, on some levels, that Sherlock would be so utterly clueless. After all, who might be in love with him was hardly important information, and currently, John was quite grateful for this fact.

He thought of that kiss Sherlock gave to Molly on Christmas day. It was such a small, tiny thing. The action of someone who knew what he ought to do - what the human response really should be - but who didn't really feel it. His wooden movements and the brevity of his lips on her face played through John's mind.

Even so, John suspected that Molly had felt the kiss lingering on her cheek for hours, possibly days afterwards, so brightly did she burn for this man.

John had seen Sherlock kiss Mrs Hudson before now too. These were usually louder, showier, exuberant, joyful kisses, like the kisses of a toddler to his mother when he's really, really pleased with himself. So John was aware that Sherlock wasn't afraid of the contact, just the sentiment.

His kiss, the one that was just for him, had been similar to Molly's. Not quite so brief, still slightly wooden, but the kiss of someone who wanted to express a feeling, but wasn't entirely sure what feeling that was, or how he should show it.

It had happened on the afternoon of John's return from hospital. His jubilation had died away quite quickly when he remembered that feeling a lot better than nearly dead isn't quite the same thing as feeling well. And being able to manage in a nice, calm hospital room didn't require the same level of effort as being able to manage in the outside world. Sitting upright in the cab for the ten minute journey back to Baker Street had damn near killed him. Well not quite, but it had been worryingly awful. He'd sat on the sofa and sweated and shivered while Mrs Hudson and Sherlock excitedly told him they'd prepared Sherlock's room for him to use so that he didn't need to bother with so many stairs, and because it was handily located for anything he might need.

He'd smiled painfully and explained that he didn't need that much fuss, and he really was fine, and could people please just dial down their worry and concern.

The argument had gone back and forth for a while, until John really couldn't wait anymore, and he'd pushed past them to the bathroom so that he could vomit away the nausea that he'd been feeling since bouncing in a cab seat along Euston Road. He stayed in the bathroom for a while, wondering how he'd face the worried inhabitants of the house afterwards. Finally he felt that he could stand it no longer, and he'd crept into Sherlock's room and into the bed, letting the coolness of the clean linen soothe him.

He'd opened his eyes when Sherlock came in bearing the gift of a glass of water, which he put down on the bedside table.

"Sorry," John said. "I thought I would take you up on that offer after all."

"It's fine."

"I'll be back to normal tomorrow I'm sure."

"Take as long as you need." Sherlock had hesitated, as if there were something else on his mind. "There's another blanket," he said eventually.

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering."

Sherlock had picked up the blanket from the end of the bed and shaken it out. He draped it over John, and knelt to tuck it under the mattress the way he had done with John's bed in the hospital so many times. There was another hesitation, and then he had leaned in to kiss John once on the cheek.

"Thank you for not dying," he whispered into his ear.

He looked away, nodded briefly, apparently satisfied that he'd said all he needed to, and then he stood and left.

That was it. It was over in seconds, and Sherlock hadn't spoken of it again, and nor had John. He'd thought about it though. He'd thought about it _a lot_, trying to work out motives, feelings, what the bloody hell had possibly been going through Sherlock's mind when he thought _that_ might be a good idea. He'd thought about it far too regularly for a man to whom it really didn't matter, and he'd thought about _that_ thought even more.

He often thought about it while stroking that particular place on his cheek, as if there might be some sort of explanation marked out in braille there that he'd work out eventually.

He realised he was doing this now, and he stopped.

He looked at where Sherlock was standing over the corpse of a reasonably attractive woman in her mid-twenties with his magnifying glass out, peering closely into her pubic hair. He used a gloved hand to part the hair and peered even closer. John told himself sternly that there was nothing about this image that could be considered endearing, attractive, or even just _pleasant,_ and yet he found he didn't want to take his eyes off the man.

The gloved hand extended expectantly. "Tweezers, dish," Sherlock said.

John straightened up and fetched the desired items. "You could say please, you know," he said.

"No need," Sherlock replied simply.

John was about to reply when the door burst open, and Molly rushed in, face flushed and eyes dancing. John automatically stood aside, but she ignored Sherlock entirely and rushed towards him.

"John! John!" She hugged him tightly and buried her face against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

"It's fine. It's all OK," John said quietly.

She didn't let go. "No, it was awful, it really was! It's just, I did what… well he… it's just…"

"It's fine, Molly, it's really, really fine. I understand."

She pulled away slightly, but didn't let go. "How are you? Greg told me you'd been shot and then were so ill."

"Ah, Greg, is it?"

She smiled and blushed slightly. "Well, it's so much shorter than Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, isn't it?"

"Does anyone care that there's a woman lying dead here?" Sherlock snapped.

John and Molly pulled away from each other.

"What have you found?" Molly asked. John realised she sounded particularly calm and professional.

"Not sure. Substance in her lower pubic hair. Can I borrow your lab? Have they put you back where you've always been?"

"Yep, you know where to find it."

"Aren't you coming?"

"Actually I was about to take my lunch break. I assume you're not eating, but what about you, John? Do you have time for a quick bite?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, straightening up and looking at John. "It might be worth you trying to eat something more substantial than an apple now. On the other hand I'm not sure that Bart's staff canteen is likely to provide anything that you can digest. Perhaps they'll have something light though; it might be worth going to check."

John blinked. "Yes, thank you for that analysis, Sherlock; well done. I think that I am quite capable of deciding for myself, thank you. I'd love to come for a quick lunch with you, Molly."

Molly looked briefly baffled, but she rallied and smiled at John. "OK then."

She led them out along the corridor, and they lost Sherlock a few doors down.

"He'll be happy for a while then," Molly said.

"I hope so anyhow."

"Has he been being very difficult?"

"Oh he's not bad really. It's just been a while since he's been able to properly think about something."

"Mm. Greg's been pretty worried about him. About you too, of course, but also about him."

John grinned. "Oh really? Greg has, has he?"

Molly smiled back. "Well, you know, he's a nice person to spend time around. And it makes a pleasant change to talk to someone who seems to see me as something more than a convenient lab-owner. Or a psychopath."

"He prefers sociopath."

Molly frowned. "I meant Jim."

"Oh, right. Yes."

John smiled and opened the door to the cafeteria for her.

Sherlock hadn't been wrong in his predictions of the fare on offer. John looked at the choices between cottage pie, bubbling, burnt and crispy around the edges, and a congealed, stodgy pasta dish. His stomach failed to be inspired by either.

"Are you OK?" Molly asked when he'd been staring a while.

"Oh don't you start too," John said, but he instantly looked ashamed. "Sorry. It's just there's a long list of people peppering me with that question recently."

"Well Greg said you were pretty bad. He said Sherlock…"

"Sherlock what?"

Molly looked embarrassed. "He was really distressed. Greg said he cried."

John was slightly thrown. "To be fair, he cries a lot. Maybe he was just doing it for effect."

"No, I mean… Look, Greg called me when I was still in Bath because he was so shaken up. He said he picked up Mrs Hudson to go and visit you, maybe three or four days into after you were shot. You'd been fine as far as Greg knew, and he called round with a case, and Mrs Hudson said Sherlock hadn't come home, so they both went up to the hospital, and Sherlock was…. Well he was…"

"He was distressed."

"Yeah. He was properly…."

"Distressed."

"Can I get either of you anything?" the server asked, and the two of them returned to the present.

"Sorry, I'll have the pasta please," Molly said. She briskly moved her tray away, loading up with biscuits and drink.

John settled for a portion of the cottage pie and a bottle of water and sat down with it feeling fairly miserable. He wasn't aware of Molly watching him until she spoke.

"I know it doesn't help, really, with what happened before," she said. "But he wasn't crying for effect. He came out of your room and almost fell on Mrs Hudson. He said you nearly died. He was shaking." She thought about this image and shuddered herself. "Sorry. I just mean; I know that sometimes it must feel like he doesn't care, especially after… well, you know after what, but I think that he really does love you. You know. I mean; he is your friend."

"I know."

"And the other thing too. I'm so sorry that I didn't think about how it would be for you at all. It's just he was standing there, and so worried and scared. I didn't think; I just did what he wanted."

"It's fine. I know he can be persuasive."

"Yes." Molly smiled grimly. "Well, if it helps at all, I'm not sure I'd do the same again now."

John smiled. "So Sherlock has been completely and utterly replaced in your heart, has he?"

Molly blushed delightfully. "I'm not sure I'd say _replaced_ exactly. Greg takes up a different space. It's just that I seem more interested in that space at the moment." She started eating.

"I'm glad," John said. "I really am happy for you, Molly. Greg's a good man, and I reckon he could probably make you really happy. Well, I think you could make each other happy. I'm glad."

He chose not to say that he was pleased that the complication of Molly's desire had been neatly removed from his own complicated thoughts too. For a brief moment, he wondered about discussing things with her. After all, she'd know better than anyone what it felt like to have a crush on Sherlock Holmes, however ridiculous, brief, and entirely caused by traumatic events that crush might be. She looked up at him and frowned.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked. "You are looking very thin at the moment."

John smiled and started taking small bites of his meal. It was soft and tasted of nothing at all.


	6. A brief syncope

**I just wanted to say thank you all for the reviews! Especially Guest, and Guest who I can't mail back to; thank you so much. Pip xxx**

Chapter 6

John managed half of his lunch before he decided that it really wasn't worth the fight. He chatted with Molly about the effects of the shot and the septicaemia. It was refreshing, talking to someone who understood all the facts and figures without him needing to go into detailed explanations about what everything meant, and why the doctors had made the choices they had.

Molly was concerned, but she was also impressed with is recovery thus far, which was also a refreshing change from the people who hovered over him, expecting him to pass out or fall down at any given moment.

He learned the surprising fact that Mrs Hudson had bought Sherlock several pairs of casual trousers and some sleeved t-shirts so that he'd have something comfortable to work in at the hospital. Apparently the doctors had made a fuss about Sherlock staying to help when his sleeves were merely pushed back and regularly falling down again and encouraging germs to spread further. That was what Sherlock had cried about to Mrs Hudson; that he might lose John entirely for want of a more casual wardrobe.

John thought how surreal that moment in the corridor must have been for everyone concerned.

It occurred to him now that Sherlock had been strangely dressed when in the hospital – all loose edges and pastel colours - and he wondered how he hadn't noticed before. Distracted by all the vomit, he assumed.

They were interrupted by Sherlock marching in and standing over them.

"It was glue," he announced.

Molly and John exchanged a look.

"Somehow a small amount of glue got onto her pubic hair," Sherlock explained.

John looked at the forkful of mashed potatoes he'd just loaded, and decided he really didn't want that one last bite after all and put it back on his plate.

"Anything else interesting about her?" he asked.

"Not until the toxicology reports come back." He glared at Molly. "Any idea how long they'll be?"

"Well, they certainly won't be ready until I've finished my lunch anyhow."

"Marvellous, then while Ms Hooper sustains herself, we'll just have to wait." He pulled a chair out to sit down so that he could stare at her some more.

"That won't speed me up," she said. She continued eating

"What about this glue?" John asked. "'Glue' covers a fairly broad spectrum."

"Used predominantly in the special effects industry, primarily for make-up. It's used for false eyelashes too, and she did have signs of false lashes in the past, but that doesn't explain how it got into her pubic hair."

"Maybe she had a vajazzel." Molly said, and John grinned at her. "She was certainly well waxed quite recently."

"A what?" Sherlock asked.

Molly was suddenly paying some close but completely innocent attention to her meal, so Sherlock turned to John.

"OK, it's a newish thing where girls who go to certain clubs decorate their… themselves."

"With what?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know precisely, but I would assume glitter and beads and sequins and the like."

"Why?"

Sherlock was incredulous. Molly was enjoying the last few mouthfuls of pasta with a distinct look of amusement on her face. Sherlock's bewilderment continued and John really wasn't enjoying the avenues this particular discussion was taking his brain.

"I really have no idea," he answered.

"Her fingernails were polished," Sherlock said. "They had jewels studded on them."

"Maybe she'd painted them to match," Molly suggested.

Sherlock gave her a look. "Have you quite finished with your meal? The toxicology report would be very helpful for me."

"Yes, I'm done. I'll text you with the results later."

"Fine. What about you?" Sherlock looked at John's fairly full plate, and had clearly started calculating from the likely size of the portion, the amount of calories that John had consumed. "I think you need a little more, but I couldn't guarantee there's no milk in the potato."

"It doesn't taste like there is, but I've had enough." John's stomach lurched unpleasantly, but he decided it was mostly under control. "Come on, Lestrade said he could meet us at two, and time's getting on."

Sherlock looked as though he'd like to argue, but John stood and stared him down.

"Fine, come on, let's go." Sherlock marched off.

"I'd really, really like him to slow down just a little bit," John grumbled.

"And yet you'd follow him anywhere," Molly said, standing too. "Don't worry, I remember how that feels." She took their trays away, and John watched her leave, wondering just how perceptive she was.

He didn't wonder for long though, as he realised if he didn't get a move on, he'd lose Sherlock completely.

He found Sherlock waiting at the front of the building, staring into space, clearly just barely managing to hold onto his patience. He glanced at John and waved for a taxi.

John got in after him and sat down.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Balham, apparently."

John checked his watch. "We'll be late."

"So will Lestrade." Sherlock glanced across at John. "Are you OK? Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine, and no, there's nothing I need. You'll know when there is, because I'll ask."

"No you won't."

"I _will_. I certainly will if it gets you to dial down your concern just a little."

"I enjoy asking. Well, _enjoy_ isn't the right word, but I feel better when I ask regularly. Apparently one of the deeper layers of my brain wants constant reassurance in the same way one of your wants to come and find me at night. You're just going to have to get used to it. I've tried to overrule it, but it's not working and it's using precious energy."

John sighed. "I'm fine." He slipped his hand beneath Sherlock's which was resting between them on the seat, and he gave it a quick squeeze.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, linking his fingers through John's. "That feels better! That's very clever. I would imagine that part of my brain is analysing your hand for temperature and strength. How interesting. And of course if I need a deeper observation, I can just…" he released John's fingers and slid his hand along John's wrist to find his pulse. A small frown appeared. "Your pulse is elevated. Are you sure you're quite well?"

John thought of the various reasons that his heart might be racing a little.

"It's probably that I've just eaten, that's all," he said.

"Oh yes, of course."

Sherlock linked their fingers together again, raised John's hand to his mouth to briefly brush it with his lips, and let it settle down on the seat again. He drifted off instantly, and if he had any indication that he had any consciousness of that last action, he didn't show it.

John looked away and tried not to think about anything at all. He was not successful.

They pulled up outside large apartment complex in Balham, and John opened the door to get out. He found he was restricted by Sherlock's continued hold on his hand.

"No, you have to let me go now," he said. "It's a nice idea, but it won't be practical when you're working."

Sherlock looked unimpressed as he released John's hand. He did at least let go though, and marched ahead of him into the foyer. John hurried after him, aware of the slight head-rush he was feeling, but reluctant to slow down. He followed Sherlock through the big double doors and into the lobby where Lestrade was chatting with the security guard. He pointedly looked at his watch.

"Where's the room?" Sherlock asked.

"Up a couple of floors," Lestrade answered. "Thanks, Pete, if there's anything else, I'll let you know."

He walked the others to the lift and John looked around. The foyer was spacious and there was a wide, sweeping staircase and long mirrors with art deco features.

"Nice place," he commented.

"Yeah." Lestrade answered. "It was built for civil service use way back when they were treated more civilly and less like servants. Most of it's been sold off, and it's let out for general use now. Miss Pennington wasn't civil service."

"She was a student, yes?" John asked, stepping into the lift and taking the opportunity to rest against the lift wall.

"Studying for a PHD in fact. Some sort of archaeologist."

"She hasn't been out in the field for a while," Sherlock said. "Her fingernails were too long."

The lift doors opened on the third floor, and Lestrade led them along a long, creaky corridor. They turned a corner and stopped a few doors down. There was police tape across the door, but the lock had been forced and the wood around it was chipped.

"That was us," Lestrade said. "There had been reports of loud music playing on a loop, and when her parents couldn't get an answer the local police forced the door."

"Doesn't the security guy have a master key?" John asked.

"Only for the doors with their original locks. This one's privately owned now, and has been changed."

"It's been changed a couple of times, once recently," Sherlock said, looking at it. "Let's get in then." He pushed past the others and ducked under the tape.

John followed him in. He walked past a tiny bathroom, a minuscule kitchen, and into one living space that served as both living and bedroom. It wasn't large; most of it was taken up with the double bed, but there was a desk under the largish window, and on the wall opposite the bed, a large shelving and cupboard unit. Sherlock was already dancing around in the space, measuring angles between his finger and thumb, looking closely at certain things, and closing one eye to view others. He dropped to his hands and knees and sniffed the carpet.

John shuffled past him to stand as far out of the way as he could manage. He leant against a wardrobe door, and the distant thought that had been steadily growing since Bart's café finally asserted itself onto his consciousness; he wasn't feeling well.

He took a very steady breath and told his body sternly not to panic, as that tended to make everything feel slightly worse. With that in mind, he assessed his symptoms. His stomach was causing him the most distraction at the moment. It was painful and felt oddly distended, but, though he was nauseous, he didn't think it was the sort of nausea that suggested an imminent vomit. He'd had enough experience with nausea recently to be able to differentiate between the many different feelings that that term covered. This was mildly uncomfortable and sort of cold. He was also aware that his head was getting lighter, and his hands were positively icy. He suspected a sudden drop in blood pressure. If he were the doctor rather than the patient, he might suggest that someone should sit or lie down and perhaps elevate their legs with these symptoms. Unfortunately, the only places on offer were the carpet beneath Sherlock's nose, or the satin spread bed, and neither of them was tempting just now. He took slow, careful breaths.

Sherlock stood up sharply. "Why didn't you tell me she was in the sex trade?"

"She wasn't," Lestrade answered. "I just told you she was a student."

"No, she was a student when she was over there," Sherlock waved at the desk, "and she featured on an Internet sex line when she was there," he gestured at the bed. "Look at this, there are two webcams in this room. The one on her laptop here," he showed them the desk, "which would show Sofia and the wall behind her, decorated as it is with pictures of her family and friends where she was on digs. So why would she need this second camera, here?" He pointed at the larger, self-contained camera that was perched on the shelf opposite the bed. "This one showed a rather nice bed, complete with boas, dusters and anything else that her viewing public might want her to use as a prop."

John looked. Sure enough, on a narrow shelf over the bed, there was an array of things that might come in useful for sex games.

Unfortunately, the other thing he noticed was that the sharp turn had exacerbated some of his symptoms. He was aware of numbness in his feet, and alarmingly, a cold, tingling sensation in the triangle covering his upper jaw and nose. He was quietly wondering whether he'd manage to fight it off or if he could at least make it through to the bathroom, when he saw the first few grey spots.

"Ugh, Sherlk…" he said.

He was just aware of Sherlock turning towards him before he fainted.


	7. The worst moment

**Hello - sorry for interrupting again, but I just wanted to answer a Guest review. This story follows on from The Man Who Holds the Key (which follows from The Empty House). It might well read as if there's something missing, but there isn't. I started to write the story of John in hospital, but it was too much - far too intense, no letting up from the angst and so forth. It stayed in my head for a good few months though, and then I fell upon the happy idea of writing it in flashbacks from this nicer, funner prompt. Pip xxx.**

Chapter 7

John was aware of an argument before he was aware of anything else. There was comfort and familiarity in the sound, but he wasn't entirely sure why. He opened his eyes and was afforded the view of Sherlock's polished shoes and leg, and he wondered where on earth he might be.

"Um?" he said. He tried to roll over but was feeling a touch heavy.

The argument broke off.

"No, stay where you are a second," Sherlock said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

John put his head back down and rubbed his face, largely to hide his embarrassment.

"How long was I out?" he asked into the carpet.

"Not long; five, ten seconds at the most. I haven't even had time to make you comfortable yet."

"Thank you. I'm sorry." He managed to roll over now, only slightly hindered by his proximity to the wall.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, frowning at him.

"Are you absolutely sure he doesn't need an ambulance?" Lestrade asked.

"No he doesn't!" Sherlock snapped.

"He hit his head pretty hard."

"He's fine! We'll just let him come around properly and I'll take him home."

"No, you don't need to leave," John said, trying to sit up. "I can get home fine."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, helping him get slowly upright.

Between the two of them, they managed to get him sitting basically upright, propped against the wall.

"I'm not being ridiculous," John said when the swaying had stopped. "I'm a forty year old man, and I can bloody well get home by myself." He rubbed his face again, and was annoyed to find that both his hands were shaking. He saw Sherlock watching him, so he hid them in his armpits.

"I still think you need an ambulance," Lestrade said.

"No!" John and Sherlock said together.

"I'm fine," John said. "It was a brief syncope, that's all. I'm fine now, and I can get home…"

"And I'll go with you," Sherlock said.

John gritted his teeth. "You're at work. You need to stay here and finish the job."

"I've finished."

"No, you had more to say. You were just talking about the handcuffs when I hit the deck. You should finish up."

Sherlock looked at him steadily. "There are a number of sex toys, indicating a two way conversation between Sofia and her client, but there's no indication that she had sex before she died, nor has she used the flat for sex in the past month or so. There is a box of condoms on the shelves, out of view from the family webcam, but only one has been used, and the dust pattern suggests it hasn't been touched for a reasonably long time. There, I've finished. Will you let me take you home now?"

"So was she murdered, or was it suicide?" John asked.

Sherlock's face faltered.

"There you are then," John said. "Stay and finish the job. If you're that worried about letting me out of your sight, I'll stay put for a while." He didn't add that he didn't quite trust his legs yet anyway, so the delay was more of a blessing than a curse.

Sherlock scrutinised him briefly, but then turned to Lestrade.

"I don't know yet," he said. He looked around the room again. "If there was someone here, they didn't put up a struggle, nor force themselves on Miss Pennington. The carpet shows signs of having been walked by many people recently, but that's likely to be on account of your men's inability to tread lightly. I would suggest that if she was killed by someone, then it was by someone who wasn't in this room."

"She was killed by someone who wasn't here?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped. He closed his eyes to think. "I don't know how it was done, but yes, it was murder remotely. Unless all of the evidence got trampled away."

"There were coroner people too," Lestrade said. "It wasn't just on my men. Plus John's just writhed full length on the floor."

This earned him a glare from Sherlock.

"I'll need to take the computer," Sherlock said. "And the phone."

"The phone's at the Yard. The note she left too. I can't exactly go about just giving out key evidence."

"Fine, then I'm just as happy not to help you."

John rolled his eyes. Lestrade noticed and nodded. "OK, I'll drop both around later. You can take the laptop now. Is there anything else that you want to take from my crime scene?"

"You don't know if it is a crime scene yet," Sherlock said. He continued to glance around, and got on his hands and knees again to check underneath the bed. "No. I think this will have to do. There's nothing else of interest here."

"Good, well, thank you," Lestrade said, in the tone of voice which suggested relief rather than gratitude.

Sherlock turned back to John. He hesitated before he restricted himself to just offering a hand. John took it and slowly got to his feet.

"Are you nauseous?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John lied.

"I think we can risk a cab then. Good. Let's go."

"I can drive you back," Lestrade said. "The car's just outside."

"There's no need," John said. "I'm fine. I'm more than capable of getting back to Baker Street in one piece, even on my own if you did need Sherlock for anything elsewhere."

"But he doesn't," Sherlock said, "so I'm coming with you."

He gave him a wide, false grin and gestured towards the door, and John was forced to walk out of it. Sherlock followed him carrying a laptop, and Lestrade was last, carrying a frown.

"You will return that to the station, won't you?" he fretted. "I really can't have yet more evidence going missing."

"I've returned everything I've taken," Sherlock said. "I've clearly learned morality from John."

"What?"

"Nothing," John snapped. He blushed furiously, which seemed like a sorry waste of good blood, and he continued to do so until they were walking back through the foyer, when it occurred to him that perhaps Sherlock wasn't alluding to his nocturnal activities at all.

The thought that he may have overreacted didn't please him, and he huffed out into the small garden in front of the apartments and out onto the street where he looked peevishly up and down for a free cab. The fact that Sherlock could find one almost every time he wanted to niggled at him, and he felt bitter.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, joining him.

"Yes, I'm fine." John seethed.

"There's a cab," Sherlock said, waving at one just appearing from a side road.

John waited, hunched up, fists stuffed into his pocket until it arrived at the side of the road next to them. He pushed his way into it and stared out of the window as Sherlock gave their destination. As they set off, Sherlock reached for his hand again, but John pulled it sharply away, and for good measure used it to support his head in a completely unnecessary and mildly uncomfortable way.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the expression of utter bafflement on Sherlock's face, which he instantly felt guilty about, which he then felt angry about. He sat back and closed his eyes.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, and John opened his eyes again. "Here," Sherlock said. "Do you want my apple?"

He held it out on his outstretched hand, and John looked at it for a while. Eventually he removed the apple and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's. The look of bafflement returned, but there seemed to be relief behind it too.

He didn't eat the apple.

Sherlock bounded in front of him into the house when they got home and John needed to walk all the way upstairs to remind him he needed to pay for the cab. Sherlock was already unpacking the computer with an eager look on his face.

"Sherlock, I paid the first two cabs. I wouldn't complain, but I'm out of cash."

"My wallet's in my pocket," Sherlock replied, without looking away from the screen.

"Coat? Jacket? Trousers?"

"Coat!"

"Which is…?"

"Oh for heaven's sake! Do I have to do everything myself?" Sherlock snapped. He glanced up and caught the look on John's face and looked slightly chastened. "Living room, probably chair or floor."

John went to find it. Another pound had been added to the fare by the time he got back downstairs, but he gave a sizable tip nonetheless.

When he got up to the living room the second time he found Mrs Hudson bustling about the kitchen chattering, while Sherlock quite impressively tuned her out. He sat down on the sofa and sighed with a heady mix of exhaustion and relief.

"Oh, there you are, John," Mrs Hudson said. "I bought a nice bit of salmon for your lunch today, but then I couldn't find you. Do you want me to cook it now?"

"Thanks, Mrs H, but I had lunch out. I wish I'd have waited for your fish."

"He fainted," Sherlock interjected, helpfully.

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson, all concerned, rushed over to him and fairly randomly held her hand to his forehead. "I don't think you're feverish. Are you nauseous?"

"I'm fine," John said, shrugging her off. "It was a brief syncope, that's all."

"He said that before," Sherlock said. "It just means he fainted, like I said." He took several seconds away from his work to give John something of a glare.

"I really am fine," John said, feeling his head begin to throb a little while his stomach continued to spin. "I'll sit down for a while, and I'll be fine."

"Yes, put your feet up, you relax now," Mrs Hudson said. "I'll go and make you a nice cup of mint tea."

"I don't want a nice cup of mint tea!" he snapped.

"Oh, what would you like then?" Mrs Hudson asked.

He sighed. "Actually, I would quite like a cup of mint tea. I just don't want any fuss."

"No, of course not. I'll leave you alone now and go and make that tea. Put your feet up here love, let me get those shoes off you…"

"I can do it!"

"Of course you can," she said, pulling them from his feet. "There you go, that's nice and comfy now. I'll get that tea."

"He might like a pillow," Sherlock said, quite clearly smirking. "Perhaps a blanket."

"I'm _fine._"

"Of course you are," Mrs Hudson soothed. "I'll get you that pillow. How about your pyjamas too? That might make you a bit more comfortable."

John covered his face and sighed again. Mrs Hudson went back into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"You took him out far too soon!" she complained at Sherlock. "He should still be here resting."

John checked, and the smirk had most definitely been wiped from Sherlock's face. He was searching through the computer with an intense look on his face, so John allowed himself a brief smirk of his own. Mrs Hudson returned with one of Sherlock's pillows, and the spare blanket from his room. John tried to look as nonchalant as possible while he made himself comfortable, paying particular attention not to bury his nose into the pillow to immerse himself into the Sherlock scent of strength and safety. With a mild undertone of tobacco.

A cup of steaming mint tea appeared on the coffee table, and he muttered thanks. He glanced to where Sherlock was, still frowning at the computer screen. Sherlock noticed him.

"You should sleep now," Sherlock said.

"I don't need to have a nap. I'm not a baby."

"Fine, don't then."

When John woke up a couple of hours later the light through the window was growing murky. He stretched, stiffly and tried not to groan too loudly. He shrugged the blanket off him and rolled to sit up. The tea on the coffee table was cold now, but he drank it anyway and found it surprisingly refreshing.

Sherlock was still in the kitchen, mostly illuminated by the light from the computer screen. John thought about this aggressive need for stimulation at every single moment, and though how tiring that must be sometimes. He thought back to the time he was in hospital. He didn't recall seeing Sherlock with his laptop at any point. He couldn't even remember if he'd had his phone or not. He wouldn't have been allowed when he'd been in intensive care, but when John had been moved to a general ward where the rules were more relaxed, there was still no phone. There had been at least one book, because John had occasionally woken up to find Sherlock reading, but the book would be tidied away the instant he noticed John awake. He must have been bored out of his skull. He must have been bored out of his skull _and _surrounded by a fair amount of drugs of various sorts. It must have been agony, and he still chose to be there.

"What was the worst moment for you?" he asked out of nowhere.

"Busy," Sherlock replied, his eyes glued to the glowing screen.

"Sorry." John reached for the newspaper.

"Worst part of what?" Sherlock asked.

"Of when I was ill. I was just thinking that it must have been pretty boring. Gruesome too, but you mind that less."

There was a silence. John watched Sherlock who gave no indication that he'd even heard this as he scrolled through more documents. John went back to the paper. There had been a protest that had turned into a scuffle outside Kittens strip club and he logged it to mention to Sherlock later.

"I think it was the night we just waited," Sherlock said.

"What was that?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave the screen. "There was one night, the first bad night after you were moved into intensive care. They kept making noises that I shouldn't be there because I wasn't a family member, but they also appreciated me talking you down from trying to escape so they let me stay. You thought we were on a boat for a bit of it, and you begged me to let you off. I had to hold you down on the bed while telling you to trust me. That was strange. Anyway, you lost consciousness a while after that, and that was dull. Then, in the middle of the night, the machines registered their general concern, and then Kerry, you remember Kerry; the Irish nurse with black hair, married to a man in prison, also dating one of the hospital receptionists. Anyhow, she was there quite quickly, and she called Doctor Sprat. You remember Doctor Sprat; he was the one with the limp from the motorcycle accident, not Doctor Fielding, the tedious little man who really wanted to be a professional cricketer. I was glad we got Sprat and not Fielding that night."

Sherlock paused while he clicked through several links on the screen. John wondered if he had finished, but Sherlock started talking again in his quiet, calm voice.

"Anyhow, the three of us just sat there and waited. They didn't say much of anything; they just fiddled with machines and watched you. Every now and then, you'd start getting a little worse, and Doctor Fielding would get tense and adjust the machines again, and then you'd pop up again, and we'd go back to waiting. You just hovered there somewhere between life and death, refusing to just get better, but not committing yourself to dying either. We just waited and waited for the moment when you'd just stop living so they could leap in to resuscitate or just let you go, or the moment when it became clear that you were stable enough that they wouldn't need to. You chose the latter path in the end. We waited four hours and forty-seven minutes for it. It seemed longer. So, now you know. That was the worst for me; waiting through the night to see if you'd die."

John realised he was staring at Sherlock, and he looked back at the newspaper, but the stories seemed somewhat frivolous now.

"Was that before or after Mrs Hudson bought you the t-shirts?" he asked, just for something to say.

"Before. She bought me t-shirts the next day."

"OK," John muttered. "Thanks for telling me."

"It's fine."

John looked up again. "So what you're saying is that I can stop persecuting myself for the time I threw the full vom-bowl at your head?"

Sherlock looked up and smiled. "Oh that didn't bother me a bit. Your aim was shocking, but it was at least interesting."

John took a deep breath. "I'm going to cook that fish. Do you want some?"


	8. Red Pants

Chapter 8

John woke up relatively late in the morning, and he felt well rested. His stomach was hungry, but it didn't seem to have any of the tightness or pain that he was accustomed to. He smiled to himself, thinking that perhaps his body was getting back into a sensible sleeping routine. Maybe he just needed to have a pleasant dinner with Sherlock… or at least he needed to eat a pleasant meal while Sherlock ignored his in favour of telling John seemingly random facts about the case, and then a little light research to help with the case, and then bed. If that was what it took to stop his body roaming the house in his mind's absence, then that would be what he'd do.

He rolled over and his left hand wrapped around something that didn't feel like bed linen. It was cloth, certainly, but it was smaller and made from elasticated fabric. He held it up to examine it and found it was a pair of underpants.

He sat up to find that there were several more pairs of underpants in a variety of styles on his bed, just dropped randomly and not in any specific pattern.

They didn't look particularly familiar. One pair was red.

He dropped the pair he was holding and put his head in his hands.

Twenty minutes later he went downstairs with his towel draped over his shoulder and a pile of underwear in his arms. He walked past Sherlock who was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the computer.

"I'm bringing your pants back," he said as he walked past.

"Thank you."

John stopped. "Why didn't you stop me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You seemed happy. Are you ready to go back to work?"

"I'll put your pants away, shower, get dressed and eat first. If there's any filing system for your pants that I should know about, now would be the time to tell me."

"Just in the drawer will do." He looked up. "You didn't do anything to them, did you?"

"Not as far as I'm aware. Though, if I did wear them on my head to do circuits of the flat, you're the only one who'd know."

"Drawer is fine then."

John nodded and proceeded to Sherlock's bedroom where he dumped the pile of pants into Sherlock's top drawer. He decided he was too hungry to shower straight away, so he went back through to make himself some breakfast. He glanced at the screen that Sherlock was looking at, and winced.

"Seriously? At this time in the morning?"

Sherlock frowned. "Is there a timing restriction I should know about?"

"No but…"

"Be quiet then. Actually, don't be quiet; sit down and help me with this. This is clearly your area."

"No it's not!"

"It's closer to your area than mine. It has been your area occasionally, from time to time in the past, possibly at specific times of the day or according to some strange lunar cycle that I don't understand. I'm not analysing your activity, neither am I making a moral assertion; I'm just suggesting you're more knowledgeable about possible subtext in these conversations."

John gave him a look. "There's very little subtext in these conversations. It's basically her saying 'I want to have sex with you', while meaning 'I don't want to have sex with you', and him meaning 'I want to have sex with you' pretty much whatever he actually says. That's it. Wait, is that actually Sofia? I thought she didn't record her stuff."

"No, she didn't. I got these by hacking into the central database at Girls Here, Girls Here dot com. They kept them, I'm assuming, for advertising purposes. They're not great quality, and it's not an extensive archive. Some have limited audio, some have typed text between Sofia and her clients, and some have neither. Sit down."

"Give me a second."

John collected his toast from the toaster, spread it with butter and smeared it with Marmite and then joined Sherlock at the kitchen table.

"Must you insist on eating that rancid brown stuff so close to me?" Sherlock complained.

"Yes, I'm hungry. Shut up."

Sherlock hit 'play' on the video on the laptop. John took a few moments to try an organise his thoughts away from the one that kept flashing; 'You're watching porn with Sherlock Holmes' directly into his consciousness. He reminded himself that he was a medical man, and this was simply a human body, and that he should just get on with the job at hand. Not literally at hand… oh never mind.

It didn't take long for him to filter out any inappropriate thoughts. He was initially helped by the fact that Sherlock was clearly simply observing as if the flesh on display was simply a substance in the course of an enquiry. Unfortunately, this stopped being helpful as soon as he started wondering what sorts of things might actually generate a reaction in Sherlock.

He concentrated again. There really was very little of any sort of interest in the videos, and John quite quickly he became bored by Sofia's coquettish little smiles and the way she teased her clients. There were only eight videos available, and they had just started the seventh when, he saw something that made him grab Sherlock's wrist.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"There was… there was something there."

"In the room?"

"No, of course not; in her face. She reacted then. Scroll back a bit."

They watched again. This time he saw it more easily because he was looking, but it was over in a split second. Sofia's face froze, she drew back, and then she smiled again and moved closer to the camera and went on with her act as normal.

"Did you see it?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, but he scrolled back and watched again, and then another time.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Good spot."

"Be nice to see what was on her screen."

"Yes."

They watched to the end of the recording. John thought that there might have been a slight nervousness in her act that day, but he couldn't specify anything different between that recording and the ones where she looked terminally bored behind her exuberant act.

It finished and Sherlock stretched.

"There's one more. I watched this last night, but you might as well see it."

John shrugged, and Sherlock hit play. He instantly stopped the video again.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What?" John said. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

John realised that he'd probably gone tense, but it wasn't intentional. In this video, Sofia was wearing red underwear. It was a rich scarlet colour, not dissimilar to the colour of the pants he'd found on his pillow that morning. He tried to shake his discomfort off.

"Keep going," he said. "There was nothing there."

Sherlock nodded with a frown and turned the video back on. There was Sophia kneeling on her bed wearing her red underwear. It was, of course, utterly different to Sherlock's pants. Hers were a shimmery silky material for a start, whereas his were practical. Practical and skin-tight. Figure hugging. Sherlock clearly wouldn't go in for silk boxer shorts; that would be ridiculous. And if he did, he'd probably look…

Sherlock stopped the video. "Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yes, fine."

"Are you sure there's nothing there?"

"No, she's fine. She seems more comfortable there than she did in some of the others we've seen."

"You're sure?"

"Yes I'm sure." He looked directly at Sherlock, but regretted it almost immediately, and he looked away and waited for his blush to subside.

Sherlock looked away too. He examined the kitchen wall for a short while before he spoke again.

"Actually, I've just remembered I needed to borrow a dish from Mrs Hudson. Could you watch the rest of this one alone? Like I say, I've seen it already, but I wanted your expert eye."

He was up and heading for the door before he'd even finished speaking.

John didn't argue about the 'expert' moniker. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to watch the rest of the video.


	9. Red trousers

Chapter 9

John showered. He contemplated showering in cold water just to teach himself a good lesson, but in the end he refused to start acting as if he were sexually frustrated. Well, he refused to start acting as if he were sexually frustrated in a way that might be noticeable by Sherlock. He found himself balancing precariously between two facts; Sherlock notices _everything_, but he doesn't usually notice _this._

He went back upstairs to dress, but he ended up sitting on his bed, waiting for the current head rush to dissipate. He stared at the shopping bags full of perfectly serviceable clothes, and when he felt steadier, he emptied them onto the bed to examine. There were three plain coloured t-shirts and two collared shirts; one in red, one in dark blue checks. There were two pairs of standard, straight-cut jeans, and one pair of chinos, inexplicably dyed pillar-box red. He frowned at them and put them aside. Finally, there were two jumpers; one lightweight one in dark blue that put John in mind of his school jumpers, and a thicker, cableknit hooded one in olive green, which reminded him of his time in the army. It looked warm though.

He chose one of the pairs of serviceable jeans, and then on a whim put them back.

He dressed went downstairs to find Sherlock at the living room table with his own computer, and Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.

"Oh John! Sherlock said you had to make your own breakf… Good Lord, what on earth are you wearing?"

John looked down at himself. "Yes, I see what you mean. Apparently Sherlock thinks I have the dress sense of a clown."

Sherlock looked up at the sound of his name. "They're fi…" he broke off to snigger.

"Well the shirt's nice. Probably," Mrs Hudson said. "And these bright trousers are in all the shops." She frowned at them as if they might explode.

"That's good to know," he replied. "Sherlock bought these for himself, remember, so I'll have to pop out later to replace them."

He wandered over to Sherlock who pointedly refused to look at his computer while John stood there and waited. Eventually Sherlock caved.

"I'm not very good at shopping," he said. "There, I've admitted a weakness. Happy now?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all. You always dress so conservatively. Sort of." He thought of the aubergine shirt and the red pants. He was fairly certain he'd seen Sherlock in a silk shirt before now.

"And you dress flamboyantly," Sherlock said.

"I do not!"

"You dress more flamboyantly than I do." He looked up with a frown. "It was an interesting experience. I started with the premise that I could just replace your clothes with exact replicas in a smaller size, so I chose the shops by looking at the labels, but the same clothes were nowhere to be seen. So I had to abandon that idea, and then I panicked a bit so bought the first thing that leapt out at me, which turned out to be bright red trousers, and then I reasoned that that just going for 'eye-catching' might not be the best strategy, so I went for things that looked similar to the sort of things you'd wear. It wasn't ideal, but I did my best."

"No, it was very kind of you; thank you." He rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up at him and looked as though there were a question in his brain somewhere if he could just find it. John removed his hand.

"Wait a minute," John said sitting down with him, "are you really telling me you've never been shopping? That you don't know how it works?"

"No, of course I haven't. Why would I ever go shopping?"

"To buy clothes. Where do your clothes come from?"

"I don't know. They just arrive. I'm assuming Mycroft has a hand in it; he usually does."

"That's right," Mrs Hudson said, delivering camomile tea and coffee to them. "Mycroft has clothes delivered, I have them dry-cleaned or wash them in Sherlock's special detergent, iron them, and put them in his wardrobe."

Both men stared.

"Who chooses them?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

"Wait a sec," John said. "Sherlock has special detergent?"

"Yes, because he has sensitive skin. It's one of the reasons he did so poorly living alone; that and the fact that he'd happily starve himself without noticing. And Mycroft used to choose the clothes, but now he asks my opinion, or if he's busy, he'll just give me his account details. I chose your dark blue-grey suit, Sherlock. It goes well with your eyes. Or it will if you ever wear it."

"I have a dark blue suit?"

"You have sensitive skin?"

"Very sensitive skin," Mrs Hudson said. "I have to use the stuff they sell for baby clothes."

John smiled and shook his head. Sherlock looked genuinely mind-blown at all of these revelations.

"I thought there were fleas in that house," he said quietly.

"There probably were," Mrs Hudson said. "It really wasn't very clean, was it? But the skin flare-up was the detergent. Don't worry about it," she rubbed his back gently. "You're here now and you're safe and clean and happy. You don't need to worry about it any more."

"You're his landlady," John said.

"Yes, of course I am, dear." She left them alone.

John drank his tea and thought of Sherlock's sensitive skin. This didn't do him any good at all, so instead he thought of Mrs Hudson. He had noticed, of course he'd noticed, that she thought about Sherlock as if he were her son. Occasionally, quite rarely, and only when Sherlock was being exceptionally irritating, he'd get a little bit jealous that Sherlock had her to look after him and comfort him, when he was just left to get on with things, and he was equally as motherless as Sherlock.

He knew he was being completely unfair and slightly childish here. On the whole he thought it was good that Sherlock had someone who would always look after him. Someone vaguely more acceptable and warmer than Mycroft too. On the other hand, while Sherlock might infuriate her from time to time, it was also clear that if push came to shove, she would always, always take his side in an argument. _She_ could say what she liked about him of course, and she did regularly and sometimes with quite a passion. As soon as you joined in with the complaining though, she'd stare daggers and berate you until you recanted anything just slightly negative you might ever even thought about Sherlock Holmes. John had learned quite early that the only acceptable response was to just let her rant until it was over, and then she'd return to cooking and cleaning and soothing him when he was upset.

He wondered whether he should ask her permission or perhaps her advice. If things were to progress anywhere with Sherlock, and if he ever accidentally, even just slightly hurt Sherlock's feelings a bit, she'd probably kill him dead on the spot…

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. I'm not thinking of anything, nothing at all. I mind is completely blank. Utterly."

Sherlock frowned at him, and John drank some more tea.

"So," he said, when he was calm enough to emerge from his mug, "what are our plans for today?"

Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. "I was thinking about going down to that strip club you mentioned yesterday; the one where there'd been a fight. I was hoping you might stay here and conduct some more research for me."

"And what research might that be?"

"I thought you could look at some more websites. Let me know if there were rumours of any unusual activities with any of the girls."

John watched him steadily. Sherlock had turned back to his computer, but there was the faintest hint of red in his cheeks.

"Right, so I stay home to do some imaginary research in case I get into some sort of trouble, then," John snapped.

"No! It would be useful to me."

"But probably not as useful as me coming with you to the strip club, so why don't I do that instead?"

"John, you're…" Sherlock bit his tongue.

"I'm _what?_" John asked. "I'm not trustworthy? I'm a child? I'm an invalid?"

"No! Be reasonable, will you? The last two occasions you've left the house, things haven't exactly gone well, have they? Maybe Mrs Hudson is right! Maybe I'm rushing you along."

John shook his head and sighed. "Please," he said eventually. "Please let me come with you. I promise nothing bad will happen."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were assessing him. "Could you at least promise to tell me if you feel unwell? You need to stop assuming that you can manage by yourself, and you really have to stop assuming that I'll notice if you're ill again, because clearly I won't. I can tell if you're right next to me and I have nothing better to think about, but if I'm distracted by a case, then you'll need to interrupt!"

"You don't like me interrupting."

"No, but if you don't promise you'll at least try, then you can't come."

"Oh can't I? I know where the club is. Perhaps I could just follow you in a cab."

Sherlock looked wretched. "OK, fine, we'll go together. That's fine. But I will ask you if you're OK approximately every fifteen seconds, and you have to just deal with it, and you're not allowed to lie when you answer me."

John wanted to protest, but he could see the anxiety running off Sherlock again, and he relented.

"OK. I promise I will both answer honestly _and_ I'll interrupt if there's anything you need to know. If I feel unsteady, I'll even find somewhere quiet to sit until you've finished. OK?" He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "So can I come with you?"

Sherlock looked down to where their hands were. "Yes, OK. That will be fine."

"Good. I'm going to have to change these trousers before we go."

"They're really not that…" Sherlock started, but then John stood up. "OK, I can wait."

John grinned and he went to change. He also put on the thicker jumper and found it pleasingly warm. He joined Sherlock again and they made their way down to the street and into yet another cab.

They sat side by side and settled into the journey. After a minute or two, John became aware that Sherlock was vaguely watching him.

He sighed. "I'm fine. I'm still fine."

"No, I know, it's just…" Sherlock shook his head.

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"_What?"_

Sherlock shook his head again, but he did look at John. "I just feel that I should apologise for making you feel uncomfortable this morning."

"When?" John remembered when, and he coloured and turned away.

"It didn't occur to me," Sherlock went painfully on, "and it perhaps should have done, and I'm sorry."

"No, well… I didn't think you'd noticed. I _hoped_ you hadn't noticed."

"I'm sorry I didn't notice before you became uncomfortable. I've been a bit distracted."

John could almost feel himself glow with embarrassment. He wondered why Sherlock felt the need for these little chats when they were in a cab. He wondered what this might mean now; whether there would be awful discomfort while both of them danced around the subject desperately hoping that it would just go away again. He wondered, for the fourteen millionth time since he'd come home from hospital, whether he should just abandon this life altogether and just move out. That though still stung too much though.

"To be honest," Sherlock went on, oblivious to John's turmoil, "I didn't think you'd be well enough. You've been below strength and I imagine on some level I thought perhaps the bloodletting might have temporarily calmed things in that area."

"I'm sure this will all pass," John said desperately. "You need to know that I'll be back to normal really soon, and this will all be behind me. Please believe me about that."

"Well that's just what I'm saying. You are clearly back to normal in that area at least, and I didn't take that into account. I just want you to know that if I'd have known, then I never would have... I would have made sure you were…. I wouldn't have put you in that position."

John could hear his pulse beating through his ears. Some of the awful, hideous words wormed their way through into his consciousness. He frowned.

"Wait, what? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Well, you clearly had a reaction to seeing Sofia Pennington on the screen. I was surprised but…what?"

John had put his head into his hands.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "What were you talking about?"

"Nothing," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't talking about anything. Nothing at all." He didn't move.

"John?"

John couldn't bring himself to reply.

"John, I think I'm going to need to hold your hand again now."

John looked up and smiled and held his hand out. Sherlock took it, still looking troubled by all of this.

"It's fine," John said. "Obviously you're right, but it's just a thing that happened, and it's not a big deal, so let's just move on. If you weren't so bloody worried about me at the moment it wouldn't have bothered you at all. You wouldn't have apologised; you'd have complained. OK?"

"Yes," Sherlock said eventually. "You're probably right." The look of concern didn't leave his face though.

"In the interests of full disclosure," John said, "my heart is racing a bit, and I'm a touch dizzy. I think it'll pass if we both just sit very still, and as long as neither of us says anything at all until we get to the club. OK?"

Sherlock nodded and sat back to watch the buildings as they passed by.


	10. Fight

**You're getting a bonus chapter today, because I have a question for you. When I started writing this, my intention was to head to non-graphic slash (as I've put in the header). The thing is, where I am with the writing at the moment, I could either do that and work with hints and 'then they returned from the bedroom' type scenes, or I could knock the rating up to M and take you into the room. I'm currently torn, and it's possible (likely) that my sex scene won't actually end up that graphic anyway, but I'd be nervous at putting much in there at all on a T rating. If you have strong opinions either way, let me know.**

**Thanks! Pip xxx**

Chapter 10

Sherlock was mercifully quiet for the rest of the cab journey, and John sat still, holding his hand, wondering whether it really would be for the best if he just moved out. He'd been thinking about it on and off for months now, sometimes in a panic, sometimes seriously. He thought that perhaps some of the intensity of his relationship with Sherlock would be reduced if he was just somewhere else for some of the time.

He imagined a little flat that was just his. The telly would not be shouted at, and remote controls would not be hurled across the room. Computers would not be stolen, and neither, to be fair, would underpants. It might be quite a calm place to be.

Then he imagined Sherlock storming in as if he owned the place, demanding food, giving him facts and figures at an alarming rate, turning the telly over, borrowing John's laptop.

He decided not to rush to find his own place just yet.

Sherlock released John's hand as the cab pulled in and he leapt out. He was about to storm off, but caught himself and turned to pay. John was impressed. He followed him out and then along the street and around the corner.

"They've gone for subtlety then," Sherlock said.

John looked up and grinned. The club was decked out with pictures of well-endowed, scantily-clad young ladies, between large flashing neon signs that blared 'Girls! Girls!' and 'Pole-dancing!' and 'Lap-dancing!'.

"How early do these places open?" Sherlock asked, checking his watch.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Oh it's just for an opinion!" Sherlock snapped. "Logically, I suppose they have to compete with the internet and such like these days. It wouldn't surprise me if they're open all around the clock." He moved along towards the door.

"Don't go in there," a voice called.

They looked around. There was a young man, a boy really of no more than eighteen or twenty, watching them. For a moment, John didn't think the voice could have come from him, he seemed so meek and frightened, but he looked at them and said again; "Please don't go in there."

Sherlock turned and stepped towards him. The boy cowered slightly, and John held his hands up slightly.

"It's OK."

The boy shifted his feet but held his ground.

"Why don't you want us to go in there?" Sherlock asked.

"It's just, it's an awful place," the boy answered with a shrug.

"Religious?" John asked.

The boy shook his head. He looked on the point of tears. "The religious lot come down here sometimes to stand with me, but I'm not a believer. I just really don't like that place."

John glanced at Sherlock who was staring intently at the boy.

"Do you want to come with us somewhere to get a coffee?" John asked. "You look half frozen, and you can tell us all about it if you want."

There was a hesitation, but then a nod. They walked back to the main road and into a coffee shop. Sherlock paid for the drinks, but the boy insisted on giving him the money for his.

"I can pay my own way," he said stubbornly.

His fingernails were bitten down to stumps, and this, along with the spread of acne and lanky hair just added to the feeling of patheticness that this boy radiated. They sat down at a table together.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Richard Pullman. Rich to my mates, Rick to those that don't know me, but Ricky never."

"I'm John. He's Sherlock."

Richard's eyes swung upwards at the name. "Do I know you? Are you an actor or something?"

"Sometimes," Sherlock answered.

"No," John said. "He works with the police. We both do as sort of freelance detectives."

Richard's eyes widened. "I do know you. You're that man, aren't you? The one who… Aren't you dead?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John shook his head. "No, that was all a massive exaggeration on the part of the press."

"They do do that," Richard agreed. "You might be able to help me then." He hesitated. "I can't pay you though."

"You don't need to," Sherlock said. "We're already on a case for someone else which has led us to Kitten's strip club. It would be extremely helpful to know what your connection with the place is. If there's anything I find that can help you, you'll be welcome to it free of charge. Is that a deal?"

Richard nodded. He glanced between John and Sherlock again, and they waited patiently for him.

"My sister, Sheila, works there," he said eventually. "_Worked_ there, I mean. I don't know where she is now. If they know, they won't tell me."

"She hasn't tried to get in touch with you herself?" John asked.

Richard shook his head.

"Would she?" John asked.

"I think she would. We talked a lot, even after she'd run off. I don't want you to get the wrong impression of her. Sheila's a nice girl, but she didn't always see eye to eye with Mum. She wants to be a dancer. She's done it all her life, and she's really good. It's like a real passion. Mum took her to all the lessons and made costumes and all sorts. They did it together, but then it went all strange between them. When Sheila got older, Mum wanted her to settle down for her studies a bit. The dancing went wrong too; she broke her leg and couldn't do it for six months when she was fifteen. Mum said she should just give up and go to university. Sheila didn't want to. She got into a right state over it, and hated mum for it all, even though it weren't her fault really. Then there was other stuff; boyfriends and that. Well, I guess you know how mums and daughters can be sometimes, don't you?"

Sherlock looked blankly at him.

"Yes, we know," John said. "So Sheila didn't give up on her dream, but she came to London to be a dancer?"

"No, we live here. Well, out in Kingston anyhow. I still live at home, with Mum, who cries and prays and just wants her to come home again. I told Sheila that, but she wouldn't come. She'd gone into lodgings out in Wandsworth, and she had savings at first, and then she got a job in MacDonalds, but it didn't pay much, and she wanted to do the dancing. She said a friend told her about Kittens. She said it wasn't like I'd think, and it was all OK and just dancing. I think she lied though."

He stopped to drink his coffee with shaking hands.

"When was the last time you saw her?" Sherlock asked, and John wished he'd learn subtlety at some point.

"Nearly two weeks ago," Richard said. "I used to meet her outside the club so we could go for lunch. She hasn't answered my texts since the last time I saw her. I went to the Wandsworth place, but they said she'd gone."

"Can I see your texts?" Sherlock asked.

Richard nodded and pulled out his mobile phone. He worked his way through some menus, and handed the phone to Sherlock.

"What did Sheila think about working in the club?" John asked. "Did she keep trying to change your mind about it?"

"No, she stopped that quite early on. She even asked me to go in and see for myself once early on. Obviously I couldn't, but then she stopped, and one time I said maybe I would, she told me it wasn't for me. She stopped talking about it as much, and changed the subject when I brought it up. Early on, she'd say that it's all about women's lib and stuff, and how if they wanted to go and do that, then they bloody well should, and no man, not even me, should tell her that she couldn't. She'd say it was her choice. I think though, that after a while, not long after she started, she though that it wasn't her choice. She had no real choice at all." He stared glumly at his drink. "That's just what I think. Maybe I'm wrong though; I'm pretty thick about these things."

Sherlock handed him his phone back. "Thank you. You've been very thorough. Were you here on Monday when there was a commotion at the club?"

"Oh, yeah. That was my fault I think." He blushed. "The church lot had popped round to see how I was doing. They do that sometimes in the evenings before their soup run. Sometimes they'll bring me some soup too, but I always pay for it. Anyhow, there were a couple of them there just as the evening was starting up and the bouncer came out and said we were causing a disturbance and had to move. We were just talking to people! We didn't even have placards. Anyhow, one of the church guys got a bit ranty, and then there was some pushing and stuff. Brian, the church guy, he fell and hurt his head and had to go to hospital. He's out now; it was just a mild concussion. I feel bad about dragging them into it."

"How do they know you?" John asked.

"Oh, they don't. They just noticed me there and came to see what I was doing and said I was doing good job. The stupid thing is that I was only asking people if they'd seen Sheila at that point. They won't let me in, you see. They say I'm underage, but I think it's that they know who I am really. Then you know, the church lot started talking to me about how it wasn't good for the girls at all. They only think that they'd chose it, but really, they only chose it because it's what men want them to do. Something like that anyhow. It made more sense when they said it. So I started just asking people not to go in. I keep hoping Sheila will hear what I'm doing and come out, even if it's just to shout at me." He smiled sadly.

"Well thank you, Richard, you've been very helpful," Sherlock said.

"Are you still going to go into the club?" he asked.

"I might take a look," Sherlock said. "I assure you I won't be doing anything you'd disapprove of."

Richard smiled. "Thank you. I'd better get back there myself. I don't like to go too close, but I feel better if I know who's going in and out."

They walked back along the street together and at the corner where the club was, they stopped and shook hands. "I've got your number," Sherlock said. "And I know where to find you. If I find anything out about Sheila, I'll let you know."

He turned, and John fell into step with him.

"You'll note I didn't make any assurances about your conduct in the club," Sherlock said.

"What the hell do you think I'll be getting up to?" John asked. "I can barely walk up a set of stairs without needing to rest."

Sherlock smiled, and they separated to let two men pass them. "I'm just saying…" Sherlock started.

He was interrupted by a noise, and both men turned to find that the men they'd let by were approaching Richard. They didn't look as though they had kind intentions. Richard panicked and ran, and the men set off in pursuit, so Sherlock did too, and of course, so did John.

He couldn't go fast, and he was aware as he was running that he'd have to take the time to rest or vomit or something, but he felt he should be close by in case he were needed. He saw them around another corner in an alleyway. Richard was already down on the floor. One of the men was standing over him, fists flying. The second man was struggling with Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to have the better of him. John got closer, trying not to notice the stars that he was seeing.

He reached them at last, just as Sherlock wrenched the man away. He took a swing at Sherlock who ducked, and then he spun around to John, landing an unfortunately timed fist just above his pelvis on his left hand side, making impact with the new scar and the intestine below it. John dropped to the floor and the impact winded him. He curled up in a ball as the man fled.

Sherlock got hold of the second man and pulled him off Richard and around. He spotted John and let go. The second man fled too.

Sherlock dropped in front of him.

"Are you OK? What happened?"

"Fine," John said. He stopped trying to talk and concentrated on pushing the last little bit of air out of his lungs so that he could inhale again. The floor swam slightly, but he felt a bit better.

Sherlock was suddenly very close to him, holding his head in his hands. John shook him off.

"Richard?"

"Oh, he's fine. Where were you hit?"

John blinked. "Groin," he said. "Bit winded, but fine."

There was relief but sympathy in Sherlock's look now. He moved back a bit. John looked past him to Richard. He crawled forward to check his injuries and refused to admit that the floor was spinning rather too much.

"Ambulance," he ordered.

"I'm fine," Richard said. He pulled a face and spat out a tooth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He did call an ambulance though.

John was relieved to see that although Richard had a bloody, possibly broken nose, and probable bruised ribs, he was moving freely and breathing clearly.

"You all right?" he asked, crouching beside him.

Richard nodded. "Are you OK?"

"Me? Yes I'm fine! For heaven's sake, will people please stop fretting about me!"

"It's just you look quite pale," Richard said.

"Well you're bleeding from your face, so I win," John returned.

He found a handkerchief and wadded it up against Richard's nose. He then sat down heavily, and tried hard to make it look as deliberate as possible.

"I really think I should take you home now," Sherlock said.

"Yes, absolutely, let's flounce off and leave Richard bleeding to death in the street."

"I really think I'm fine," Richard said though his handkerchief.

"And the doctors can confirm that and send you home. Here's the Ambulance."

The other two turned to look, and John took the opportunity to lean back against the wall and close his eyes. The impact point in his side was throbbing slightly, but he suspected a bruise and nothing more. There was no sharp pain, no stabbing pain, nothing that might suggest internal bleeding, so he didn't put the idea into Sherlock's head. He just stayed quiet and still as Sherlock outlined the situation, and Richard told the paramedics what was hurting and what was bleeding. Then some policemen turned up and the two of them explained it all again sounding increasingly annoyed by the whole thing.

"Is he OK?" someone asked. John assumed they meant him.

"Yes he's fine," Sherlock answered. "He's just stubborn, stupid and really old, so he likes to go to sleep in random places.

People shuffled and took numbers and eventually the noise died away.

John became aware of a presence in front of him. He opened his eyes and there was Sherlock standing over him.

"Are you OK?" he asked quietly. "If you've made me lie to the police I'll be most displeased."

John grinned. "I don't believe that for a second. I am fine though. I didn't think I was, but it turned out that I am." He held his hand out, and Sherlock took hold of it to haul him up again.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes, really sure. I admit I did feel pretty rough for a while there, but it's passed and I'm fine again. Here, you can take my pulse and everything."

He held out an arm. Sherlock looked as though he'd like to resist, but in the end he took John's pulse.

"It's slightly elevated again."

"Maybe I'm just excited that the great Sherlock Holmes is touching me."

Sherlock snorted and let go of John's wrist. "Should we go home?"

"You promised me a strip club."

"I'm not sure your heart could take it."

John grinned. "You know what? Home is fine. It's a strip club. I'd like to know more about it, but I don't imagine it's that different to any other. And I don't think it's a good idea for you and I to go there together right now either. If you want me to go home, I'm happy to."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you're not ill."

"I'm sure. I'm just saying; enough is enough. Let's go home."


	11. So very sick

**Another early update today! Thanks so much for all your input to the graphic question. I've taken it all on board, and I think I've worked out the next few chapters at least. And it's lovely to hear from new people, so thanks!**

**This one does have a warning on it, in that people who aren't mad-keen on the sick stuff might want to skip over paragraphs 22-34. Those who know me from Sick Fic will probably be fine with it though.**

**Pip xxx**

Chapter 11

John woke up feeling deliciously warm and comfortable. The ache in his side suggested a bruise but nothing more. He curled his toes against the mattress and rubbed his face on the pillow. He found it interesting, in a vaguely annoying sort of way, that his current infatuation was at the point where he was imagining Sherlock's scent in his bed. And indeed the gentle sound of him breathing. And the slightly warm sensation of his breath rhythmically hitting the back of his head.

He assessed these thoughts and took another deep breath. He felt some of the pleasant, relaxed feeling dissipate.

He risked opening his eyes, and sure enough, he found himself looking at a window that had never been in his room before. He grimaced but managed not to groan loudly, and he hurried out of bed without turning around to check that he hadn't woken Sherlock.

He sat at the kitchen table and held his head in his hands. He tried hoping that Sherlock had never even known he was there, but he gave this up as futile. Eventually he realised he'd have to at least eat breakfast before packing his bags and heading to Harry or Mike's spare room to wait out the end of this god-awful crush.

He'd just finished his toast when Sherlock came into the room via the bathroom.

"You're up early," he said.

John stared at him blankly, looking for the right sort of thing to say when you've accidentally woken up in your flatmate's bed.

Sherlock's face went through a rapid succession of thoughts and emotions and landed on 'concern'.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was just tired, and I couldn't be bothered to move you on. It seemed easier to just get you into my bed and make you sleep there, and then I could make sure that you really were OK, and that was better for me. I didn't realise it would cause you this level of discomfort. It really was laziness and nothing more. It won't happen again."

One again, John found he was completely without a reply.

"You don't need to worry," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't do anything to you, and I wouldn't let you do anything to me. Besides, I won't let it happen again now I know."

"Oh for Christ's sake!" John yelled, and he pushed himself up quickly, sending his chair flying, and he stormed into the living room where he sat down on the sofa and put his head back in his hands.

He took a deep breath and tried to organise his thoughts. In the end, he decided he had no option other than complete honesty. He moved his hands to look at Sherlock, who was looking back at him, clearly just waiting for some kind of explanation. He took another deep breath and tried to keep his voice as steady and logical as he could.

"Sherlock, you need to know that…" He almost lost it here, but he forced himself back on track. "I appear to have, and I don't know at all why this might be, I'm just assuming it's some kind of emotional kickback from all the stuff in the hospital, but I seem to have become attracted to you on a deeply, desperately, physical way." He looked up to Sherlock's who was staring at him with the faintest of frowns as he tried to make sense of this. "I'm trying," John went on, "to get on top of it. Of me! I'm trying to get on top of whatever my strange, addled, twisted emotions might be doing to me. I'm pretty sure it'll just pass all by itself at some point. Maybe when you stop being irritatingly caring but revert back to just plain irritating, but right now, at the moment, I desire you pretty helplessly. _That's_ why I'm a bit concerned and pissed off that I woke up in your bed without any knowledge of consciously putting myself there. So there you are."

There Sherlock was. He stopped looking at John now and turned again to stare at the wall, clearly trying to comprehend all of this, and John was left feeling a touch dismissed. This was all just a part of a puzzle to Sherlock. There was nothing else there at all.

This is when he realised that Sherlock did not, could not, would not ever reciprocate any of these feelings. He might care, he might even _love, _but he would never, ever desire John Watson.

The effect was immediate, startling and quite dizzying. John pushed himself, desperate up to escape entirely. He didn't look at Sherlock as he fled, fearing what sort of horror he might see on his face, and just darted up to his bedroom, where he fell into a ball on his bed and took some massive gulps of air.

Then he did something he hadn't done in a long, long time. He cried. He cried desperately and with all his heart, working into the frantic sobbing all the rage he had from the weakness and fear and pain he'd been though, the frustration he'd felt that he had felt when Sherlock was back but not talking to him, and right back through to the pain of Sherlock's betrayal. He cried it all away desperately. Every now and again he'd work his way back to the knowledge that he would never be a part of Sherlock's life in any meaningful way. Sherlock Holmes simply did not want him.

It didn't feel the same as when a woman had brushed him off or turned away. He knew that there would be no alternative just around the corner if he just kept looking. He knew that there was nothing he could do about any of this, and he just cried and cried shamelessly for a full half hour until he felt drained and weak.

And sick.

He suddenly realised that through the course of his tears he'd been gulping and gasping and swallowing all sorts of salt-laden snot and tears. Add to this buttery toast and a delicious cup of tea this morning, and his stomach was really not very impressed with him.

All thoughts of Sherlock were temporarily driven from his mind as he focused on whether he'd make it to the bathroom on time, while his stomach leapt and swung about inside him.

He managed, just, and he hung over the toilet to get rid of all the snot, and with it the toast, the tea, yesterday's dinner, vomiting right down to the bile and beyond. It went on for ages. It had happened this way in the hospital several times. In fact it had happened regularly at first, and he'd be huddled over a sick bowl with the whole of his digestive track in spasm, and he'd rhythmically retch long after he'd actually vacated all that was inside him. Early on, the pain that this caused could make him pass out. The pain was lesser now, though still there, and the panic and frustration were right there with it.

Then Sherlock was there too, like he had been in the hospital, and he started rubbing his back, down from the neck, following his spine, with hard, firm strokes. John the medical man was pretty sure that this didn't really do anything, but Sherlock did it every time, and John the frightened, irrational patient didn't dare ask him to stop in case it was the only thing that prevented his intestines turning inside out entirely.

"Can you take a deep breath?" Sherlock asked.

John tried, choked, and shook his head, so Sherlock went back to the stroking.

Eventually John calmed enough to inhale properly, and Sherlock moved away. He gave John a towel to hold over his face while trying to get control. John knew that this helped. Certainly it was better than huddling over a bowl, in pain, and staring at his own vomit. He let Sherlock guide him back until he was leaning against the wall and breathed shuddering breaths into his towel. Sherlock flushed the toilet and washed his hands.

John wiped his face on the towel and risked looking at Sherlock.

"Well who wouldn't want this fine specimen of manhood?" he asked, panting and shivering and sweating.

Sherlock smiled at him. "Do you think you could manage some water now?"

John crushed his disappointment and nodded. He breathed into the towel again as the retching started again, but this time it was under control pretty quickly.

Sherlock returned with a glass of water and John swallowed a mouthful and waited. Sherlock waited with him. After a good minute and a half he risked another mouthful, and then he over the loo again to throw it up again. It wasn't pleasant, but it was at least more comfortable than the nothingness.

Sherlock was less pleased. "Why is this happening? Why are you going backwards again? If you can't keep even water down, we'll have to take you back to the hospital. We promised. I should have taken you yesterday just to be sure."

John rested against the wall again and waited until he was able to speak. It took a while, and Sherlock got there first anyway.

"No, let's not panic about this," he said. "We pushed you too far and too fast, and we have been doing for days. You took on far too much yesterday, and the day before, and you've been feeding yourself with goodness knows what, well, buttery toast and tea is certain," he nodded towards the toilet, "and we know you can't handle either of them. Bouncing around in cabs, running around until you faint, and you're obviously still sleep deprived. This was could have been predicted, really." He sniffed. "I blame Bart's Hospital café for at least some of this."

John answered by retching into his towel again, and he found that his stomach had miraculously managed to find something else it didn't like, so he returned to the loo to get spit it out.

"This is no good," Sherlock said. "You're going to get stiff if you stay down there, and you can't jump up and down all the time; that won't be at all good for you. Let's get you back to bed. I know you hate the safety bowl, but I don't care right now. You need to be warm and still, so if you need to throw up, you're going to have to do it in bed. Deal with it."

John would like to have argued but by now he was just too weak and tired, and slightly afraid of opening his mouth for anything. Still clinging to his towel and breathing short, ragged breaths, he let Sherlock help him up. He turned to the door but Sherlock steered him firmly to his room.

"No. You can stay where I can keep an eye on you."

"Sherlock," John breathed, "if I have to throw up in bed, it's sure as hell not going to be your bed."

"It doesn't matter, I don't care."

"_I_ care."

"Please, John, can you just stop fighting me, _please? _Just this one time, can you just let it go?"

John did, and Sherlock pushed him back down into the bed he'd woken up in several hours before. He breathed into his towel again and prayed that his stomach would just stay steady. He was fairly sure the crisis had past now. The physical one at any rate. He didn't feel well though. The nausea had settled into a basic feeling of pain, which wasn't great but was cope-withable. His head was beginning to throb though, and his limbs ached, both of which reminded him that he was probably feeling the effects of dehydration now, and, when it came to the crunch, he really wasn't in his best physical form.

Sherlock returned with the offensive bowl which he put on John's bed. John glared at it.

Sherlock ignored this and sat down on the bed. "I've been thinking," he said.

John braced himself.

"I really think you should see a therapist again." Sherlock said. "It's reasonable to think that the shock and so forth has caused you some emotional difficulties, and I think that you're right; that's probably the source of any feelings you have for me." John tried not to let any emotion show on his face. "You know it's true; people who are attracted to me are generally mentally unstable or dangerously unhinged. Or criminals. You're none of those things usually, so we can assume this state is temporary."

John nodded very carefully.

"But I think we both know that you're not going to see a therapist, because you're stubborn, and because you think I need therapy, and I'm definitely not going. So I propose a different plan." John raised his eyebrows. "You state that this will probably pass when I stop looking after you. I think I'll stop looking after you when you're well again. You're going to continue to wander about the night as long as you're fighting yourself, and I seem to be more able to stop questioning you obsessively when you're close by and I can check that you're not, you know, dead. So why don't we just decide that for the next few nights, that you'll just sleep in my bed. You'll get enough sleep, I'll be satisfied you're OK, the caring reduces and, with it, so does the attraction."

John stared. Sherlock stared back. John frowned.

"You want me to sleep in your bed."

"I think it is the most practical solution."

"With you."

"Yes. That way, I can stop being so overbearing and get control of my own emotions again, and you'll be better rested, and consequently stronger. It seems the quickest way out of this."

John stared some more.

"Do you not see some potential flaws in that plan?" he asked eventually.

Sherlock frowned. "Well, there's the outside chance that you'll be so intensely attracted to me that you just won't be able to keep your hands off me, but in my experience, when people spend more time with me, they end up liking me less. Besides, you're spectacularly weak at the moment. I can probably defend myself from any unwanted advances."

John smiled tiredly. "OK. Well, at the moment I don't have the energy to argue with you, and I doubt I have the energy to get upstairs, so you win for now."

Sherlock sat up and nodded with satisfaction.

"Good. Now I'm going to make you some Dioralyte. We ought to try to replace some of your salt and sugar."

"OK."

Sherlock left, and John settled down to consider what a surprising twist his day had just taken. He was also soothed by the obvious and comforting fact that he clearly was a part of Sherlock's life. It might be that neither of them quite knew what that part was at the moment, but it was there, and it possibly was important.


	12. The plan

Chapter 12

John stayed in bed perfectly happy to stare at the ceiling in silence, waiting for his churning stomach to settle down. It didn't take long for him to feel basically well again, and after about half an hour, he was able enough to sit up and look for something to do. He managed about twenty minutes of refreshing his knowledge of the periodic table while sipping at the vile Diorylite before he gave up and got up again.

He went into the kitchen to put the safety bowl back into the cupboard, and then went quietly on into the lounge. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. John did his best to ignore this, and sat down on the sofa.

"I was bored," he said.

"You're the most infuriating patient in the whole history of the world!" Sherlock said.

"Really? Do you not remember how you behaved when you had that major concussion last year?"

"That was different."

"Because I remember that you didn't take to kindly to the 'stay in bed and use the safety bowl' edict either."

"It was _completely_ different."

"Well it was different in the sense that you chose to spew all over your bedroom floor, and I haven't done that yet."

"You spewed apricots into my hair," Sherlock said.

There was no argument for this. That had indeed happened. The memory of it made John's mouth twitch a bit, and then he sniggered. Some of Sherlock's crossness fell away and he smiled too.

"Look, Sherlock, we need to work this out in a way that's going to work for us both…"

"I thought we'd done that with the bed-sharing thing."

"Yes, and that's fine and good and… well it's fine, but I need you to understand how awful this feels for me. I'm not a good patient; I know that, and I really am sorry that it's frustrating for you. It's not just that I hate feeling this useless. When we were kids, we weren't really allowed to get ill even just a little bit. It really made my mum cross, and for some reason she shouted at us about it. It literally made her that stressed, and she'd have to take time off work and there was this whole sense that it was any illness might bring about an actual disaster. It all added to the sense that we really shouldn't do it, so if Harry got ill, I'd look after her, and if I got ill, I just had to deal with that too. Being the weakling makes me all sorts of nervous, and I know I ought to just get over it, but it's deeply ingrained. I really, really appreciate everything you've done for the past five weeks; it's been astonishing and almost surreal. It's just it makes me feel stupidly out of my element."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Thank you for explaining," he said. There was silence and stillness as Sherlock's brain whirred away. "I don't think I've ever wanted someone not to die as much as I wanted you not to die," he said. "I know it seems that I honestly don't care if people die, and I suppose that's largely true; I don't usually. Some people I actually would prefer to be alive though, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and now I know he's providing my wardrobe, Mycroft too. Generally speaking, it's better for me if they're alive. It's frustrating, but I'm used to that feeling now. That wasn't the same as this. This was really was quite… I'm not sure I could even describe it properly. It felt physical; like pain, somewhere between my chest and my throat. I think I'd have preferred pain. I know that pain will eventually go away in normal circumstances, but this keeps coming back unpredictably. It has clearly altered me profoundly, and I'm finding that difficult. I don't like change."

"I've noticed."

"It's worse when it's me that's changing."

"It's altered me too," John said. "Certainly I've never experienced gratitude to the level where I've wanted to hump someone's leg over it."

Sherlock sniggered briefly but dismissed this. "But you've been that ill before. You were shot previously; you must have some understanding of how you're going to react."

"Not really. And last time left me with a psychosomatic limp, a pension card, and a general bad temper, so I'm not expecting good things."

"I'm not sure the bad temper was entirely new. Certainly it's remained whereas the limp and the pension thing are resolved now."

"But the other thing is; I have never been that ill before. The shot to the shoulder was frustrating because it removed me from the useful, point-ful existence that I'd built up for myself, but basically once they've dug the bullet out of the muscle it was finished and done with. A bullet to the intestines can cause all sorts of complications. It was weeks of fear and pain, and it's thrown up all sorts of added problems as I've... thrown up. So while you'd think I'd be used to it, I'm really not. Plus, this seems to be coming close to removing me from the second useful, point-ful existence that I've had. That's why I'm so pissed off about it all. I'm sorry that you're getting stuck in the fall out of that."

"I don't mean to patronise you quite so much. Well, not over this anyway. So what do we do? I still think that my plan of being together until you're stronger has merit."

"I think it has merits too," John said quickly. "And I think I could also accept the idea of doing slightly less for the time being. Today, for example, I'm happy to stay inside, in my pyjamas, and to not go anywhere. But I reserve the right to assess again tomorrow and not to just assume that I'm feeble forevermore. And, it would be nice if you could just try trusting me a little bit if I tell you that I can get to the bathroom in time, and I can take a bath without passing out, and that I will absolutely tell you if I think I'm getting into difficulty."

"OK," Sherlock said slowly. "I will try to trust you more, _if_ you'll accept that I will fly into the overbearing mood if you say that you are feeling unwell, though I will make an effort to keep it under control. I will also make a good attempt not to do so unless you have specifically told me that you're feeling unwell."

"OK. Deal," John said. "I am actually feeling quite dizzy and sick again now, just so you know. It's probably just sitting up and talking about uncomfortable subjects for too long. We should stop doing that." He sat back and took a slow, calming breath. "Where did you learn the trick with the towel, by the way?"

"Rehab."

"Ah." John's stomach flipped over again. "Anyhow, I'm sure I can manage to walk to the bathroom if I need to, and if I am sick again, I'll go back to bed for a few minutes. You don't need to come and observe me."

"I'll give you five minutes of vomiting alone before I intervene, and you'll have an hour in bed afterwards."

"Ten minutes and half an hour."

"Seven minutes, and you can have the half hour."

"Fair enough," John replied, deciding that this might not be the best time for a long bargaining session.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, and John smiled wanly.

"When will we consider this new vomiting as a problem?" Sherlock asked.

"When it's gone on twenty-four hours, or if I can't take any fluids at all, or if I start bringing up blood again, any of which I'll tell you about."

Sherlock checked his watch. "Off you go then."

John smiled. "It's not some kind of race."

"Fine, stay then. Though if you _don't_ make it to the bathroom in time, I reserve the right to mock you regularly and acutely."

John thought about this until the floor started buckling and swaying unpleasantly, and then he toddled back to the bathroom.

He surprised himself by being perfectly willing to crawl back to bed afterwards. He surprised himself further by going to sleep almost immediately. He woke up to a quiet flat, and though Sherlock was not usually a noisy man when he had a case to think about, he still got the impression he was alone. As he sat up, he found that Sherlock had quietly gathered clean pyjamas and a dressing gown for him, had put several books by the side of the bed, and had returned the safety bowl. It had been left, perhaps in the spirit of compromise, by his feet.

There was also a sheet of paper taped to the bedclothes over his chest, and he pulled it off to read it.

'_Lestrade found new locked-door murder. Gone to see it. Here's a list of porn sites below for you to check if you're up to it. S.'_

The list was fairly long. John rubbed his face, decided he felt quite a lot better, and went to shower.

When he was clean and comfortable again, he filled a glass of water and took it, along with his laptop, to the sofa. He stretched out comfortably and started to work his way though the list. He was surprised by how boring he found this. As soon as he'd registered his boredom, he sat up a bit to try to concentrate properly. The idea that girls in limited clothing were suddenly dull was a problem to be face at a later time, and this _was_ research in an important case, so he should focus on that.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs not long afterwards.

"Oh John, I thought I heard you moving about. How are you feeling now? Sherlock said you weren't very well today."

"I'm fine," he answered automatically.

"Sherlock said that too. Did you want anything to eat or drink? I can make you either camomile or mint tea."

"Did Sherlock specify that choice?"

Mrs Hudson's face faltered slightly. "I think he's just concerned."

"I know it, and I'm trying to behave myself. I'd love a camomile tea, with some honey in it if that's OK? I'm going to wait a bit to try actual food."

"Good boy."

John smiled as she walked away. "Mrs Hudson," he said. She turned to look at him. "I just wanted to say thank you for looking after him. He'd probably never admit it, but he does need it, and it means a lot to him. And to me."

Mrs Hudson's eyes welled slightly, and John felt uncomfortable again. "Oh John," she said. "It's fine. You know it is." She wiped her eyes and went to make the tea.

John smiled again and went back to his pornography.

Several hours later he was stretched out on the sofa with a pillow behind his back, entertaining himself by plotting a chart showing when various girls were available on various sites, which ones worked for several different providers, and which ones were suddenly absent after a fairly constant track record. He wasn't sure that any of this would be useful, but he pleased himself with the idea of being able to just mention these things casually at any point. He heard the front door slam closed and Sherlock storm up the stairs.

He appeared in the living room like a contained, lanky-limbed whirlwind.

"How was that?" John asked.

"Idiotic!" Sherlock shouted. "Lestrade's a moron. He is an absolute moron! There were no locked doors; this is obviously, unmistakably, murder, and not interesting murders either. They were the work of someone with strong moral feelings on sex-workers, and they were in the room with the victims when they killed them."

"So how did the doors lock?"

Sherlock glared at him. "That's the thing that _stupid _Lestrade temporarily forgot; the essential fact that doors can be locked from both sides!"

John was mildly impressed by the strength of Sherlock's fury about this. He couldn't prevent the giggle that he felt rising up inside him though. He tried to hide it, but it was no good. He was a fairly quiet snigger, but Sherlock rounded on him nonetheless.

"It's not funny!" Sherlock yelled.

"It's pretty funny," John replied. "It's also pretty funny that you were in the room of the first victim and didn't notice that yourself. Of course the door could just have been swung shut afterwards."

"I wasn't concentrating. I blame you. And I'll note you didn't say anything about it either!"

"Well I was unconscious for some of it." He looked back at his computer. The thought grabbed him, and he sniggered again. "How long did it take the two of you to work out? You've been gone hours."

"Well there's still a crime to be solved," Sherlock said. He glanced at John. "It took me an hour or so. It wasn't until Lestrade and I were doing a re-enactment that it suddenly became quite obvious. Then I spent a while shouting at him, and then I came home."

John giggled again. "Sorry," he said.

Sherlock's mouth twitched.

John laughed. "Actually I'm not sorry. Sherlock Holmes taking an hour to figure out the basic principles of a Yale lock is pretty damned funny."

Sherlock joined in with his low, quiet chuckle. "Oh Lord, wait until Mycroft finds out. I'll never hear the end of it."

"I'm sure he's had similar moments of stupidity. Do you want me to continue with this research? Or are we abandoning the whole thing altogether."

"Well, there is still a rush of killings to investigate I suppose. It's got to be better than watching the clock ticking."

"Good. It'd be nice to know that I haven't completely wasted the past two hours."

"No. I'm sure Lestrade will apologise before long and we can get back on with things." He visually assessed John. "How are you feeling?"

"Me? Fine. The sleep has resolved the nausea for now, and I've had two cups of herbal tea and a pint of water with no ill effects. If anything, my worst trouble now is that I'm starving."

"What do you want to eat?"

"Curry. A massive amount of a really hot, creamy curry, with naan and mushroom rice, all washed down with a couple of pints of Young's beer."

Sherlock looked horrified.

"But as it is, I'll settle for the white rice and steamed vegetables that Mrs Hudson's making for me, along with a forkful of baked trout."

"Good."

"Are you going to eat today?"

"Might as well. There's nothing particular to think about. You can show me what you've been working on if you want."

They ate slowly and quietly together and John took Sherlock through all he had discovered. He assumed that Sherlock was quietly appreciative, while looking through it all silently. After they'd eaten, Sherlock retreated to his armchair to silently think while staring at the wall, and John went to sit on the sofa and digest.

As time went on he went to gather a book to quietly read while Sherlock slowly sagged into the seat of his chair, making no sign of life at all.

It was heading towards midnight when John decided he really couldn't delay any further, and he ought to just go to bed. The idea alarmed him though. Simply going through to Sherlock's room and getting into the bed seemed wrong. On the other hand, going upstairs to his own bed would just highlight his discomfort and confuse Sherlock. Plus, he probably would sleepwalk again.

He stood up, contemplated telling Sherlock that he was going to bed, but decided against. He just went.

Sherlock's bed wasn't looking particularly tidy at this point, and feeling slightly guilty that he'd sweated all over it during the day, he quickly stripped it and replaced the sheets. He looked at it feeling slightly more satisfied that he wasn't just taking advantage, but he didn't get into it yet. He chewed his lip and wondered whether Sherlock had a preferred side. He decided he probably didn't. He probably didn't even have a preferred bed.

He gave up thinking and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returned to the bedroom, some of the issue had been resolved as Sherlock was on the left hand side of the bed, lying flat with his hands folded over his chest. He glanced at John as he came in.

"Why did you change the sheets?"

"Because I'd rolled about in them in a particularly grimy state earlier."

"Oh." They looked at each other. "Are you getting in?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Course I am."

John got into the bed and lay down as quietly as he could. He stayed rigidly on his back looking up at the ceiling.

Sherlock turned over and flung the blanket over John, and then settled down into his pillow.

John stayed completely still. After a while he accepted the fact that he really wasn't going to go to sleep like this. He rolled over so that he was facing away from Sherlock and settled himself more comfortably. He tried to put from his mind the fact that Sherlock was even there.

Unfortunately for John's brain, Sherlock moved too, and nestled up against John's back, and he snaked his arm over him, resting his hand over his heart.

"So, we're going to be friends who cuddle, are we?" John asked lightly.

"Yes. It strikes me we've been sufficiently dictated to by your subconscious now. This is me making the conscious decision that I will hold on to you during the night. Apart from anything else, it means I can check you're not going anywhere and monitor your pulse at the same time. Probably even in my sleep." He snuggled closer.

"Right," John said.

"You might want to decrease your heart rate a little," Sherlock said.

"Well yes. I'll get on that right away." John did actually start to calm down. He was relieved that at least he wasn't having any other obvious, physical reactions to any of this.

"You're so thin at the moment," Sherlock quietly complained, gently examining John's ribs. "When you're well again, I'm going to feed you nothing but cream cakes for a whole week."

And there was the other, obvious physical reaction. John was quite pleased he was facing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted slightly too so that his nose was pressed up against John's neck. John's eyes opened wide. He knew that move. He'd used that move on the rare occasions that he'd wanted to appear gentlemanly to whomever he was sharing a bed with. It was a move that gave the impression that you wanted to get _closer_ to whomever you were with, while simultaneously allowing you to move other, more difficult, parts of yourself _further away_.

He grinned in the darkness.

"You can take that look off your face, thank you," Sherlock told him.

John grinned wider. "I'm sorry," he lied.


	13. Fun with hands

Chapter 13

For the first time in a while, John woke up feeling fairly confident that he knew where he was, who he was with, and he was reasonably certain that he'd been there all night. He was on his back now, and Sherlock's arm was sprawled over his chest. Sherlock himself was next to him on his front, still soundly asleep.

John considered the situation. Technically, he could stay here as long as he wanted. That was new. He recognised that there was very little he could actually do in this position, apart than just lie there. It felt slightly wrong to creep away though, and he wasn't sure why that was.

After a minute, he realised that his need to relieve himself outweighed pretty much any other considerations. He started to slide very gently out from under Sherlock's arm. He managed to move about two inches before Sherlock's hand tensed and grabbed a handful of his t-shirt. No other part of Sherlock moved, and there was no break in the gentle breathing.

John was amused. "Sherlock," he whispered, "it's morning now and I need to pee."

There was a second or so delay, but then he was released. He moved away as Sherlock withdrew his arm and rolled onto his side. He still didn't seem to have woken up.

John left, and went through to the kitchen via the bathroom. Mrs Hudson was already there doing yesterday's washing up and quietly listening to the radio.

"You really don't need to clean for us," he said.

Mrs Hudson startled. "Oh, John! I didn't hear you come downstairs!"

There was a slight frown, and then her eyes slid towards the other possible direction from which he might have come. She did a very good job of keeping any emotions from showing on her face, but John could see the adding up, and he couldn't stop himself from blushing. To make matters worse, he couldn't stop himself from smiling either.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked.

"Yes please."

"Would you have any idea if Sherlock might be up in a bit for his too?" she asked innocently.

"I'm not sure. He didn't look like he was going to get up any time soon."

"I want coffee!" Sherlock yelled from the bedroom.

John sniggered, and Mrs Hudson joined him.

"So," Mrs Hudson whispered, "Is there anything you might like to discuss with me at all?"

John was sorely tempted. "I think it's an experiment," he settled for whispering back.

This earned a stern look from Mrs Hudson. "I'm not sure I want you experimented on, John."

He was touched and surprised by this. "Well, I have to admit I'm not putting up much of a fight." He couldn't hold the grin back again.

Mrs Hudson smiled too. "Well I'm pleased about that anyhow. You make him be good to you though, do you understand?"

John nodded.

"Whatever you two are whispering about, stop it," Sherlock called. "And where's my coffee?"

"If you want coffee, feel free to come and get it," John yelled back.

There was a short silence. "I can't. You'll have to bring it to me. Not Mrs Hudson; you."

John frowned and went back into the bedroom. Sherlock jumped when he saw him, but other than that he seemed perfectly well.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

John noted Sherlock's perfect stillness, slight tenseness even, and at the one arm hidden beneath the loose sheet, and at Sherlock's eyes, just watching him, refusing to allow even a grain of emotion through.

"Fair enough," John said. "I'll see you in ten minutes." He turned away.

"Stop grinning like that!" Sherlock snapped.

John did not stop grinning. In fact he and Mrs Hudson continued grinning together until Sherlock finally joined them, when they did stop because Sherlock looked furious.

"I'm poaching John an egg," Mrs Hudson said. "Would you like one? Keep your strength up?"

John couldn't prevent another grin.

"Stop it!" Sherlock snapped. "Stop laughing at me!"

"I'm not laughing at you," John said. "I promise I'm not. I'm just really… happy."

"That's right," Mrs Hudson said. "I'm happy too. Now do you want an egg?"

"Yes please," Sherlock said, not looking that mollified. He looked at John, who was still trying not over-smile. "You're feeling better then?"

"I'm feeling fine. Not to the extent that I'm going to overdo anything again, but for now, I'm fine." He frowned. "Did I go anywhere last night?"

"I don't know. I seem to have slept more heavily than I have done in months."

"Well that's good then."

"Yes; I've slept and you're happy, so I think we can consider the first night to have been remarkably successful, and there's no reason to change anything tonight."

He hid his face in his coffee cup while John decided not to raise any inconvenient morning experiences.

"Yes," Mrs Hudson agreed, putting poached egg on toast in front of them. "You two just keep going in the way that you have been. You're doing very well."

She went downstairs leaving them along to contemplate this praise.

"What are our plans for the day," John asked.

Sherlock sniffed and peered at his breakfast suspiciously. "I don't know. We could go and try and get a look inside Kittens again. Or we could go and discuss the new victim with Molly and have a look at her ourselves. Or we could wait for Lestrade to apologise and to bring us more evidence."

"OK."

"I'm assuming you wouldn't appreciate my other suggestion that we both just go back to bed."

John thought that he probably wouldn't fight that suggestion as much as Sherlock thought he might.

"No that's all fine," he said. "I can manage any one of those things."

"We'll start with Molly then, and perhaps Lestrade afterwards, and Kitten's later. If you start tiring during any of that…"

"I'll let you know. No problem."

"Good, let's go then, come on now, eat up!"

"I'll be a lot more likely to get through the day if you let me eat in my own time. Besides, you need to shower."

"No I don't!" A faint frown appeared. "Yes, I do." He stood and went into the bathroom.

John slowly ate through his breakfast and looked longingly at Sherlock's untouched one. He listened to the sound of the shower still going, and he switched the two plates around, deciding that he couldn't be sure when he might need the extra stamina. He managed half before Sherlock came back in, fully dressed.

"Why are you still sitting around?"

"Here, finish this while I get ready." He slid the plate towards Sherlock and went to get ready.

Twenty minutes later they were back on the pavement outside the flat.

"Did you bring something to eat?" Sherlock asked.

"I did."

"Are you warm enough?"

"I am. Do you need to take my pulse?"

"No, I'm fine. Taxi!"

They got in and Sherlock reached for John's hand and John gave it to him. Sherlock held it while he stared out of the window, thinking about whatever he was thinking. He then stopped _holding_ it, and started… _examining_ it. He continued staring out of the window, thinking thoughts that were clearly too complex for the common man. Just gently, with the tip of his left index finger, with occasional input from the side of his thumb, Sherlock examined and assessed every mark and line on John's right hand. He traced the tip of his fingers over the tips of John's surveying the length of each fingernail, examining every cuticle, down to each knuckle, all the time staring out of the window, thinking of other things entirely.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to decide that the groove between John's middle and index fingers was his favourite place to be. He gently stroked down from the fingernail to the knuckle and repeated this over and over until John found himself uncomfortably constricted.

"Er, Sherlock," he said.

"Mm?" Sherlock said, breaking away from whatever his thoughts were.

"I really need you to stop that."

"What?"

John glanced down at their hands, Sherlock still stroking away. Sherlock looked surprised, as if his hand wasn't under his control at all. He let John go instantly.

"I'm so sorry." He looked thoroughly contrite. "I didn't know that hands might be considered intimate."

"Really?"

"No."

John smiled. "Give me your hand. No, your right hand."

Sherlock frowned, but turned slightly to reach John. John glanced once at the driver who seemed preoccupied with some nonsense with a bus, some road works, a traffic warden and a bicycle.

He put Sherlock's index finger into his mouth, holding the tip lightly between his teeth. He flicked the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's fingertip quickly once while sucking gently.

Sherlock gasped and pulled his hand away. John let him go instantly.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but when he looked out of the window with that faint frown again, John was pretty certain he knew what he was thinking about this time. He smiled to himself and took Sherlock's left hand again, holding it gently but firmly on the seat between them.


	14. John's body

**Just a quick note to say that you're now almost at the end of my pre-written chapters. I've tried to keep as ahead as I can so I can update daily, but it will have to slow down a little bit now. Really sorry about that. Pip xxx**

Chapter 14

They remained quiet and still for the rest of the taxi ride, and John was able to get himself pretty much under control. He suspected, from the slightly unusual way that Sherlock was moving when he got out, that he had been less successful. He allowed himself an internal smirk, and let some of the guilty feeling that he was pushing Sherlock into something he really didn't want fall away a bit.

Sherlock looked sullen and upset as he stormed towards the mortuary.

"Sherlock?" John called.

"Mm?"

"I need you to slow down."

Sherlock stopped. A whole menu of emotions flooded over his face, of which the main course was clearly annoyance. This, however was served up with mild surprise that John had done as promised and spoken up, and a side order of confusion about his whole physical situation, garnished with a bit of 'why can't we just be somewhere else?'

John smiled and stopped with him. He took Sherlock's hand, had a quick glance around, and then he risked reaching to kiss him gently on the cheek.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "This will all pass too."

Sherlock nodded, and he turned and walked more slowly towards the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom he was almost calm again. John was finally released from Sherlock's grip as he walked through the doors into the mortuary. Molly was there this time, and she looked up haughtily as they came in.

"You need to stop being rude to Greg," she started.

"I have no time for that; I need to see John's body," he winced. "I need to see _the_ body. The dead body. The girl's dead body from yesterday. That's the only body I need to see, and I need to see all of it, right now. Every inch." He flushed again. "I need to examine the corpse," he finished with.

Molly gaped.

"Subtle, well done." John muttered.

There was a second when Molly looked ready to argue again, but she stole a glance at John and quietly decided against.

"I'll just get it," she said, and she strode away, risking a glance at them over her shoulder.

Sherlock turned on John. "Your presence here is distracting me," he whispered fiercely.

"I'm sorry," John replied evenly. "Shall I go?"

"Yes! No! No." Sherlock looked livid as he fought the internal battle with himself. He calmed down and took John's hand again. "No," he said, looking at the hand. He let it go. "Yes! Just please, be somewhere else for a few minutes. I must be capable of managing my own thoughts for that long at least!"

John smiled and nodded. "I'll wait in Molly's lab."

"It doesn't help me when you have that look on your face!"

"What look?"

"Your face. It's doing a thing, and it's _not helping._"

"Do you mean 'smiling'? I'm very sorry; I'll try to get that under control. See you in a bit."

He patted Sherlock on the arm, turned and marched smartly away.

"That's not helping either!" Sherlock snapped.

"You can stop looking any time you want," John replied.

He left and went into Molly's lab. A few minutes later she came in too with an extremely curious expression on her face.

"What on earth have you done to Sherlock?" she asked.

"I don't know. I didn't do anything deliberately."

"He just kissed me!"

John frowned. "He did what?"

"I came in with the corpse, wheeled it to him, looked up to find him staring at me, then he grabbed me and kissed me right on the lips! Then he said 'no, nothing,' and turned back to the corpse."

John was horrified. "Oh God, Molly, I'm so sorry! Honestly, he didn't know… he should know, but he probably hasn't worked out how deeply inappropriate that was."

"No, I know."

"No but, seriously." He shook his head. "Do you want me to go and talk to him now?"

"No, it's fine…"

"No it's not."

"No, it's not, but it is, because I know he didn't mean it that way. Perhaps a year ago it would have upset me, but honestly, it doesn't today. But seriously, what have you done to him?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

There was a slight smile from Molly. "Is it a good thing, a bad thing, or an anxious thing?"

"I'm not sure about that either. Good, I think. Although anxious too. But mostly good. Certainly I'm finding it something to smile about a lot."

Molly smiled too. "Well that's good."

They were interrupted by Sherlock coming in. "I've finished with that. Let's go home."

He left immediately, letting the door swing shut behind him. John didn't move anywhere.

"Would you like a drink or anything?" he asked Molly.

"Aren't you going with him?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock came back to stand in the doorway and stared at John. "We're going home," he said.

"Nope."

Sherlock came fully in and stood looking at John. "What?" he asked. "She was poisoned, quite obviously, and I expect the same toxicology report as the… what?"

"You assaulted Molly, and I'm not going anywhere with you until you acknowledge that and apologise."

"John…" Molly said.

"No, it's not OK." John glared at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back. Eventually he looked at Molly. "I apologise. It was an experi… I appear to be suffering some mental…" He floundered. "It was _not_ my intention to cause you any physical harm or mental distress, but I invaded your space inappropriately, and in doing so I may have caused you such harm and distress, and for that, I apologise wholeheartedly." He stepped towards her.

"I really don't think another kiss is the right thing to do at this point," John said. "Do you?"

Sherlock stepped back again.

"Thank you," Molly said.

"I really am sorry," Sherlock said again.

Molly smiled. "I think you are. Whether you're sorry because you're sorry, or whether you're sorry because he's angry, I'm not so sure. Either way, I accept your apology."

"But don't kiss her again," John said. "If he does, Molly, kindly slap him. People don't get to do that to you."

Molly smiled at John.

"No!" Sherlock said. "You don't get to fall in love with John now! You can have Lestrade." He left again.

John and Molly exchanged amused looks, and then John left to follow Sherlock.

Sherlock was in the corridor. He wasn't waiting for him, but he was walking quite slowly. As John caught up, Sherlock glanced at him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"I know; you told her."

"And now I'm telling you. After the event, I can recognise that it wasn't…" he fought for the right word, "_fair_ to you."

"Really? Don't worry; I'm not under the impression that I have a monopoly. All we're doing is sharing a bed for entirely practical reasons for a few nights, remember?"

"Yes." Sherlock very much looked as though that wasn't the answer he wanted to give.

They walked slowly back to the street, Sherlock lost in thought again. So much so that he took out a cigarette and lit it, using the 'ridiculous' lighter. John thought it was most apt. He waited while Sherlock smoked the whole thing and then hailed a cab.

"Baker Street," Sherlock snapped to the driver.

"I thought we were going on to Lestrade. Or the strip club."

"I want to go home."

"Fair enough."

John waited patiently again while Sherlock homed in on the question that was clearly bothering him.

"How would…" he started

"What?"

"How does it work, in relationships?" Sherlock asked. "In the early stages, I mean, how does one… how would a couple… how would a pair of people who were in a situation where there was no monopoly over each other, how would they move to a stage where there is a monopoly?"

John grinned.

"Stop laughing at me!" Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry! It just is really, really funny."

"No it's not!"

"Let me just correct you there; yes it is. Seriously, I've been dancing around this all by myself for the past three weeks. Possibly before that. I've been miserably working on the assumption that any feelings would not be reciprocated…"

"Right now any feelings _aren't_ being reciprocated."

"Really? OK then. I'll just go back to taking my unrequited feelings back to my own bed at night then, shall I?"

Sherlock snarled.

"I'm sorry," John said. Sherlock did not look soothed, so John took his hand again. "Please accept my apology. You have to realise though, that it's quite a novel position for me to out-knowledge you."

Sherlock sat up. "Perhaps that's the answer," he said. "Perhaps I should find a way of increasing my knowledge with other people, and come back to you later."

That wiped the grin off John's face, and he let go of Sherlock's hand again.

"If we're anything at all, we're clearly pre-monopoly," Sherlock reminded him.

"Actually you're right," John said, sitting up too. "And nurse Kerry did give me her private mobile number so that I could keep her updated when I was feeling better…"

Now Sherlock glared. The two men sat silently at something of an impasse. Occasionally they stole cross glances at each other until they reached Baker Street. Sherlock once again waited to pay the fare, and then he pushed past John and ran upstairs. By the time John got to the living room, Sherlock was had passed through like a whirlwind scattering coat and scarf in his wake. However, pacing in his bedroom clearly didn't work for him, so he came back quite quickly, to pace just in front of John.

John watched, trying to work out the best thing to say. Every now and again, they would stop and looked at each other. Mrs Hudson appeared.

"Oh, you're back do you…? Actually I'll leave you both alone."

She left again, and neither man made any suggestion to stop her.

"Actually," John said carefully, and Sherlock stopped and stared at him intensely, "I am pretty tired. I'm probably still a bit under par really. I might go and have a nap."

"Yes, good idea, I'll come with you." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dragged him back to his room.


	15. In the bedroom

**Two notes: First a shout out to the lovely Katkin who sent me an e-card of Sherlock, John and Lestrade jumping out from behind a sofa. It is officially my second favourite card after the one that my kids made (and that one's only first because I'm contractually obliged.)**

**Second - I'm pretty sure that this only warrants a T rating. There may be an M continuation at some point, but it will be as a stand alone chapter elsewhere.**

**Pip xxx**

Chapter 15

Sherlock seemed quite determined as he pulled John into the bedroom, but once he got there, he seemed less certain as to what he should do next. He released John and turned to him and stood just looking at him for a while.

"You OK?" John asked.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be? I think we should have sex now, just by way of clarifying my plan."

John impressed himself by not whooping in delight.

"We clearly need to get it out of our systems," Sherlock said.

"Yes. Clearly."

"You are, as you say, clearly mentally unwell at the moment, which needs rectifying, and I appear to be too, so this will surely resolve that."

"Yes. Surely."

Sherlock stayed still, tense and vaguely expectant, blinking like a rabbit in the headlights.

John took a step towards him, and he backed off a pace, so John stilled again.

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock replied. "I just want to be sure that you understand the specifics of the 'having sex' plan."

This raised an eyebrow. "Specifics?"

"Yes, specifically, this is just part of a plan to get us to a place where we're both normal again. That's all."

John nodded. "You don't want to have any sort of exclusivity over me, and don't want me to lay claim to you either. This is not what you would define as a relationship. Understood." He nodded and stepped towards Sherlock again.

Sherlock tried to back a step, but he'd run out of room, so he held his hand to John's chest and John stopped again.

"No, I'm still not clear on the exclusivity rules. I think we should have them, certainly for as long as our sleeping together plan is in place."

"No threesomes; got it."

John gently took hold of Sherlock's arms and reached up.

"No, wait…" Sherlock said.

John waited.

"John, I have no earthly idea what I'm doing here. Both with you in general, and now… specifically."

"Do you want me to retreat?"

"No." Sherlock was very clear. He shook his head for emphasis.

"OK."

John grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt into his fist and pulled him down, whereupon he landed a fairly intense kiss on his mouth. He didn't do much beyond that, other than hold him still and wait for some sort of response. Sherlock's mouth went through tense surprise, to mild curiosity, to active investigation, and by the time it got to something just shy of desperate need, John was satisfied that there was no undue pressure here, and he took possession of Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock grabbed handfuls of John's shirt, apparently just to have something to hold, and John allowed the feeling of smug satisfaction to wash over him a bit. Then he was distracted with all the kissing. He pushed an utterly compliant Sherlock up against the shelves in his room and tasted every millimetre of Sherlock's mouth.

It was so much better than he had imagined for so many nights alone in his room. Softer, darker, deeper. The feeling of relief of just experiencing this washed over him. Every now and again he remembered himself and gently tickled Sherlock's lips with his tongue or sucked Sherlock's tongue into his own mouth and Sherlock shuddered with pleasure. It was intoxicating. John could hear his heart thundering in his ears, and he could feel Sherlock's legs quivering. He wanted to smile, but he also didn't want to stop.

Eventually he surfaced and pulled away. Sherlock, eyes shut, groped for him with his mouth for a second before he opened his eyes.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked.

John couldn't think of a sensible reason, so he kissed him again. Sherlock was still holding onto his shirt, so John quietly suggested an alternative plan, and start pulling Sherlock's jacket from him. Sherlock let go of John to let it drop to the floor, and seemed baffled as to where his hands should go next. John resolved the issue by putting them firmly back on his hips. He then went to work pulling Sherlock's shirt tails from his trousers. When it was free, he slipped his hands under it to caress the extremely sensitive skin beneath. This caused something of an epiphany in Sherlock, and he started dragging John's bundle of clothes upwards, but was hampered by the thickness of John's jumper, and the t-shirt beneath the shirt.

He literally flailed, while refusing to lose contact with John's mouth.

John pulled away and grinned. He quickly slipped off the hooded jumper and removed his shirt too for good measure. Sherlock stood staring and blinking and wasn't likely to be of any immediate help, so John took his t-shirt off too.

This wasn't even close to the first time Sherlock had seen John's naked torso. He'd walked in on John showering more times than John felt were strictly necessary. He'd pulled him out of the bathtub at the hospital when John was suddenly feeling dizzy and sick. He'd helped change John's gown in the days when John barely even knew he was there. He'd seen John's naked torso plenty of times.

This was the first time he really looked though. This was the first time his eyes scanned downwards and actually noted each individual part of John's body. John felt mildly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He wasn't usually shy or ashamed, but he was aware that he didn't look at his best at the moment, and he was being scrutinized by _Sherlock_. He was suddenly intensely aware that his new scar, the cause of all of this mess, was on show, small and pink, just above the line of his waistband.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," he said.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. "Why?"

"Just come here and take your clothes off." He sat down on the bed to remove his shoes.

Sherlock stamped his way out of his shoes and undid his cuffs, but that was as far as he got. He came back where John was and stooped to kiss him some more. The angle was off and it tickled John's top lip, and he pulled away grinning.

"No, that doesn't work," Sherlock said. "Stand up again."

John grinned he didn't stand, but he knelt on the bed so that Sherlock didn't have to lean so far. Sherlock managed to undo one extra button of his shirt before he lost interest again, and instead took John's head into his hands to kiss him again. John attempted to undress Sherlock, but he found his hands were annoyingly uncoordinated, so he took reached to stroke Sherlock's neck. Sherlock moaned. John stroked the neck again, and noticed, quite curiously, that he couldn't quite work out what the texture of Sherlock's skin felt like.

He realised that his hands weren't so much busy as _numb_. And slightly tingly. And cold. His elbows felt as though they didn't quite belong to him either, and his feet were acting a little dispossessed too.

The thought struck him that the dizzying rush of lust he was feeling was mostly just dizziness now, and he pulled away from Sherlock again and swore. The room swayed, and he fought against his racing heart to breathe.

"What is it?" Sherlock said.

John quietly swore again, rested his head against Sherlock's chest, then his legs gave out so that he was sitting on his feet, and he rested against Sherlock again. Sherlock, baffled as to whether this was some part of the courtship ritual tried to hold him up and leant over him again, but John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm experiencing some difficulties," he whispered.

Sherlock angled John's head so he could look at his face, and he frowned. "You're really pale."

"Yeah."

"Really, really pale. Lie back, stay still." Sherlock guided him back until he was lying on his back on the bed.

John batted his pillows away so his head was low, and he rubbed his face with hands that seemed to be made out of rubber.

"I'm really sorry," he muttered.

"It's fine. Are you OK? Do you need anything? Water? I'm going to elevate your legs."

He darted around to the other side of the bed to get his pillows, and he hopped onto the bed to put them under John's feet. John stayed still and quiet, staring at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

"I am really, really pissed off about this now."

"Just stay still. Are you going to faint?"

"Not from here I shouldn't think."

"Are you going to vomit?"

"_No_." John wiped his face again. He cursed, miserably. "I'm really sorry," he repeated.

"You're cold again," Sherlock said. He pulled the blanket over John.

John rubbed his head again, thinking that a good faint would be better than this level of humiliation. He looked to where Sherlock was anxiously watching him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to be so disappointing."

"I'm not disappointed."

"Really?"

"The last ten minutes have been more thrilling than any other I've ever experienced."

John smiled and reached out for Sherlock's hand. It felt warm in his own. Sherlock watched their fingers wrapped together and breathed out slowly.

"I'm sorry," John said again.

"It's fine."

Sherlock shook his head and quietly tucked the blanket around John. He then settled close to him, wrapping his arms around him in the way that someone might share body warmth. He only settled here for a second though, before he he snuggled under the blanket too. On his way to a decent cuddling position, he placed a kiss on John's rib, and then, apparently enjoying this, he placed another, this time gently tasting John's skin while he did so. John smiled.

"I'll probably be better in a minute," he suggested.

"Good. No, you shouldn't strain yourself." Sherlock chose another rib to kiss. "I can wait. We can wait until you're better."

"I'm not sure I can."

Sherlock placed another kiss. "You're right; if our hypothesis is correct, and you only want me when you're feeling weakened, this might be my only chance." There was another kiss.

"Mm. Just so you know, I'm beginning to feel that that might not be a problem."

Sherlock stopped kissing, but didn't move his mouth from John's skin as he looked up at him.

"Obviously, your feelings about me may be different," John said.

Sherlock grunted, and went back to kissing John's torso, very gently.

"Can I assume that your opinion isn't different?" John asked.

"My opinion," Sherlock muttered between kisses, "doesn't currently extend", more kisses, "beyond the next ten minutes."

John smiled and chose not to point out that that wasn't particularly ambitious. His hands were feeling much more normal now, and his head was clearer. Moving cautiously, he shuffled down to under the blanket with Sherlock. Sherlock had stopped kissing while this manoeuvre took place, and the look on his face was one of mild annoyance that his activity had been curtailed.

"You need to stay still," he said reproachfully.

"I'm feeling much better now," John said. He started undoing Sherlock's buttons again, managing much more ably this time.

"You shouldn't exert yourself," Sherlock reminded him, pulling his shirt off and tossing it away from the bed.

John gently stroked that sensitive skin along Sherlock's side. He could almost see the tiny body hairs respond to his touch. "Perhaps I'll be fine if I just go very slowly."

Sherlock's head was bowed, but he looked up at John. His eyes were unfocussed and dazed.

"How slowly do you suggest?" he asked softly.

John grinned. "_Very_."

Sherlock nodded once and moved back closer to taste John's collarbone and up to his shoulder, while John gently and slowly stroked that delicate, pale skin.


	16. Mycroft's help

Chapter 16

John and Sherlock lay side by side in the bed. There were various clothes scattered around the bedroom. John was covered by a sheet and a blanket, and Sherlock was more or less covered by part of the sheet. There was one pillow still on the bed, but it was close to John's right foot, and both of their heads were flat on the mattress. It was mildly uncomfortable, but not so much that either one of them could be bothered to retrieve the pillows and straighten the bedding up.

"We should get up," John said. He was fairly certain he'd said this before, several times in fact, but he couldn't remember what the response had been.

"Why?"

Oh yes, that had been the response. He tried to find an answer that made any sort of sense.

"Well, we have a case to finish apart from anything else."

"No, we were only doing that to stave away the boredom. We've found something more interesting to do now."

John smiled. "I was previously acquainted with the notion of sex being fun," he pointed out.

"Mm. Your preoccupation has always been with trying to get it. Surely that will have changed now you have constant access."

John turned his head to look at Sherlock. "Constant access? Really?"

"Well, until you're well and sane, and until I'm sane."

"Ah. I wonder how long this insanity will last."

"I don't know." Sherlock stretched his limbs and relaxed again. "Forever as far as I care."

"What happened to 'this sex is specifically to get it out of our systems and is just part of the plan to get over it'?"

Sherlock turned and wriggled until his face was pressed against John's arm. He breathed deeply. "It didn't work yet. We should keep trying."

John grinned. "We'll need to eat. We'll need to work."

"Oh, hell!" Sherlock said. "Work! No. This is my new business plan; I won't leave this bed for anything less than a ten."

"A ten?"

"At least a ten."

"You want more than ten out of ten?"

"Yes. If the crime is not actually, completely impossible - and we're talking 'defying the laws of physics' impossible - I'm not interested. And possibly not even then. Basically, any future case will be judged against the criteria of whether solving it will be better than staying in bed and having sex with you."

"So you didn't hate it then."

"I did not," Sherlock kissed the arm, "hate it." He kissed it again.

"No, don't start anything new now."

"Why?"

"Because we have to get up. I need to drink something, and possibly eat something. Plus there's this case to solve."

"You do it. I'll just stay here." He rolled over and closed his eyes.

John was just eyeing him up, wondering what to do with him next when the doorbell rang.

"Client," John said.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered.

"We'd better get up."

"Why?"

John grinned. "Come on. While it's a nice idea, staying in bed just isn't practical." He poked him gently and Sherlock writhed. "You really are ticklish, aren't you?" John logged this for future reference.

Sherlock rolled over to see John, and he frowned. "That's not Lestrade," he said. "It's Mycroft."

John frowned, and then he too registered the footsteps coming up the stairs.

"You really should get up," John said. There was a look of distinct anxiety on Sherlock's face, as if he were fighting the urge to run away. "It's OK," John said quietly. "I'll hide in here. He doesn't need to know."

The look changed to one of gratitude, and Sherlock hopped of the bed, gathering and getting into pyjamas on his way through, grabbing a dressing gown from the hook on the door, and then he was gone. John stayed very still, fairly sure that he couldn't be heard. He listened, but he couldn't make out any words, just the low, deep voices of the two men. After a few minutes, he got bored of listening, and thought he was in quite a convenient place for a nap.

He woke up several hours later, surprised that he'd slept so long. He was alone in the bed, and the flat was quiet. He got up and pulled his trousers and t-shirt on before going to find Sherlock.

Sherlock was in the living room working at the computer. At some point, he'd found the time to shower and quietly dress without disturbing John. He glanced up as John came into the room, but looked straight back at his computer again.

"Mycroft's gone then?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Did he want anything particular?"

"No."

John looked at Sherlock for a while longer.

"What did he say?" John asked.

"Nothing new." He glanced at John. "We should go to the nightclub place. There are a few lines of enquiry there to follow."

John came right up to the table and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock virtually squirmed under it, and John removed it again, alarmed.

"What happened to 'I'm never going to leave this bed?" he asked.

Sherlock's face faltered for a millisecond before he aligned it again. "You we're right. There's still a case to solve."

"OK," John said, fighting his temper. "Do I have time to eat and shower first?"

"Yes, there's time."

"Are you eating?"

"No."

John chewed on his lip. "Should I assume you've abruptly returned to sanity then?"

Sherlock pouted and stared at his computer, hammering at the keyboard.

"It's interesting to me," John said, "how a couple of hours ago, you couldn't keep your hands off me, and now, you can't even look at me in the eye."

Sherlock stopped typing and sat back to look at John. John folded his arms at him. He was pleased to see a fair amount of guilt and shame still showing through Sherlock's mask of calm.

"What did Mycroft say?" John asked slowly and firmly.

Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat. "He reminded me that I have a duty to remain clear headed and maintain self-discipline."

"A duty? A duty to whom, for God's sake?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "To my clients, I suppose."

"Sherlock, _what did Mycroft say?_"

"He reminded me that caring isn't and advantage. He reminded me that if I put my heart on display, it's likely to be broken. He reminded me that I'm likely to break yours first. He reminded me that everyone dies. You're not _special_." He spat the last word out.

John leaned on the back of the other chair, almost shaking with rage. "OK then," he said, just about keeping his voice level. "Fine. Good. I'll go and cook."

He turned and marched to the kitchen and opened the food cupboard just to have something to look at. None of the contents looked remotely appetising just now. He wondered about making up a large bowl of pasta and a creamy cheese sauce, just so that when he started throwing it up, Sherlock would come and stroke his back again. He told himself to stop thinking like a love-sick teen.

He heard a movement behind him, and he found he didn't want to turn to look at Sherlock. He looked into the cupboard instead, moving jars and tins around until he could fake it no longer and he took out a can of beans. He sidled to the utensils drawer for a wooden spoon, and back to the pan cupboard all without turning to face the room.

Sherlock cleared his throat. John stopped what he was doing but didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly. "It was foolish of me to let it go so far in the first place."

John turned to face him now. "You know, you're right," he said. "I'm not special. I'm made of exactly the same stuff as everyone else in the world. I'm not hugely talented in any one area; there will be no blue plaques on the house where I live. When I die, and you're right, I will at some point just like anyone else, I suspect that my mourners won't extend beyond my family and a few close friends. Because that's what _special_ is, Sherlock. It's not how many people know your name; it's how badly the people that do want you to be in their lives. And yes, I might break your heart one day. I hope I don't; I'd prefer that didn't happen. And you might break mine, but you know what? That would be your privilege. You give something of yourself to someone, and it goes with the territory that someday you might need to take it away again. And that'll hurt me, but you'll have earned the right, so that's fine. What's sure as hell, beyond the pale, _unacceptable_ to me, is that my heart might get broken on your behalf by your ruddy _brother._"

Sherlock swallowed but didn't say anything.

John breathed out. "I'm not hungry right now. I'll shower and then we'll go." He marched into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He avoided looking in the mirror as he turned the shower on and undressed. He stepped into the hot water and tried to let it soothe him. He could feel his heart racing again, and he suspected the water was a little too hot, and part of him wanted to faint, just to get the reaction.

He heard the bathroom door close again and he seethed.

"No," he shouted. "I'm afraid if you don't want to be with involved me anymore, then you don't get to come into the bathroom when I'm in it. I expect privacy from _a flatmate_!"

Sherlock said something that John couldn't hear over the sound of the water.

"You'll have to wait!" John snapped.

He was not surprised when Sherlock simply drew back the shower curtain. He was slightly surprised when Sherlock, fully dressed, got into the shower with him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm apologising."

John narrowed his eyes. "For what?" he asked.

Sherlock thought. "For temporarily forgetting that Mycroft is a moron."

John refused to smile. "I'm really angry with you. I know I shouldn't be. I know you didn't promise anything, and I know we're technically waiting out this phase that we're both going through, but I'm really, really angry. You can't…"

"What?"

"You can't…. Please don't give up on me yet," John said. "I know it's a lot for you to take on, I know you never wanted this, but please can we see how this is all going to bed down? I mean, not literally bed down. I mean, we've had one, insane hour in bed during which I was too faint to move several times, can you just accept that I can be… better?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I have no complaints! None at all."

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying, can't we at least see how this goes, with working and living happening alongside anything that's happening with us? Can you give me that much?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "Mycroft is a moron. I'm sorry. Can we please forget that I had a stupid few hours? Please."

John slowly nodded. "OK."

Sherlock sagged with relief. "I thought it would be easier to walk away from you than be with you. It wasn't. I think it's because you were asleep. You're harder to walk away from when you're awake."

John smirked. "You need me to stay awake to save you from fits of stupidity?"

"I always have. I only ever burn down the kitchen when you're asleep." He shook his head again. "There should be a blue plaque on the house where you live. There should. If I'm the only person in the world who ever think so, then the rest of the world is wrong."

John blinked for a while. Then he frowned. "I'm pretty sure those trousers are dry clean only."

"Probably. I'd quite like to kiss you again now."

John obliged.


	17. Kitten's

**Oh I didn't mean to leave it this long! My intention was to finish a big piece of editing on the Gren Sequel before I came back to this. Unfortunately it coincided with having a lot to do for my paid job and my children. Many apologies, and I hope to get the next chapter up much more quickly. Thanks, as always, for the continued reviews and support. Pipxxx**

Chapter 17

John felt thoroughly waterlogged by the time he managed to leave the shower. Sherlock had finally left him alone to wash after a fair amount of protests and arguments. His sodden and possibly ruined clothes had been dumped at the other end of the bathtub. As John finally turned the water off, he thought about gathering these up and wringing them out somewhere. Then he decided that Mrs Hudson would probably find them highly amusing, so he left them there.

Sherlock was already dressed in his bedroom when John joined him. He was standing in front of the full length mirror on his wardrobe door, frowning slightly.

"Personally, I wouldn't say dark blue. This is clearly a grey suit."

John looked. "Slate. Mostly grey with some blue tones in it."

"Compromise satisfies nobody, John."

He grinned. "Then it's a dark blue/grey suit like Mrs Hudson said." He chose not to add that she was right; it did bring out Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock glowered. "Come here and tell me that again," he said quietly.

"You can't threaten me," John said. "You certainly can't threaten me in the manner in which you're trying to."

This earned a half smile, and John very nearly obliged him anyway.

"Go and get dressed," Sherlock instructed. "We need to go soon."

"I need to eat first."

"You and your blasted stomach," Sherlock muttered.

John grinned and went up to his room to find himself some clothes while working out which meal he could cook the quickest that would also be gentlest on his complaining stomach.

He ended up virtually inhaling half a bowl of noodles while Sherlock stood glaring over him. He was then rather roughly forced into his coat and a few minutes later was standing dizzily on the pavement at Baker Street, waiting for a cab. He was shoved into it by Sherlock who jumped in after him.

"Do you mind?" John complained. "We established that it opens long hours; I don't think that time is that much of the essence here."

"The quicker we leave, the sooner we can get back home for more sex."

The driver choked, and John blushed.

"Where to, mate?" the driver asked.

"Kitten's strip club, Hopkins Street," Sherlock replied.

In the rear view mirror, John could just about see the look of amused confusion on the driver's face. He couldn't hold back the giggle. He watched Sherlock replay the whole of the conversation, check it for inappropriate comments, and then his snigger rose too. He pulled his glove off and found John's hand, but he dropped it quite quickly and felt for his pulse instead.

"It's racing again," he said. "Your heart rate is stupidly erratic."

"Well I think I can be forgiven. I've been chased out of bed, chased into the shower, chased out of the shower, been forced to bolt a perfectly good meal, and then shoved out onto the street. Yes, it'll take me some time to recover."

"Plus you have been significantly more physically active in the past few hours. I blame myself. Not so much that we won't be having sex again later, of course."

John sniggered again. "Good. Got that all planned, have you?"

"Yes, I thought of something to try."

The driver choked again. John giggled helplessly and Sherlock joined him. For the rest of the journey they chose not to say anything, and the silence was only broken when one or the other of them broke into fits of giggles. They arranged their serious faces as they turned into Hopkins Street and passed Richard. He was looking small and exhausted as he was being enthusiastically spoken at by someone who John assumed to be from a church. He continued to watch them as they got out and Sherlock paid for the cab, but he didn't go over to join the conversation.

He and Sherlock went into the club door and down a staircase into a lobby. There was a reception desk, behind which was a blonde woman, fully dressed, but in clothes designed to highlight her voluminous breasts. John could see a largish man standing in the shadows behind her, but he didn't recognise him from the fight the other day. The receptionist gave them a soulless smile.

"Welcome to Kitten's Night Club," she said. "Would you like chairs in the bar, a viewing booth, or a private room? Waitress service is available in all areas."

"None of the above," Sherlock answered. "We'd like to see the manager please."

"I'm sorry, the manager is currently unavailable," the receptionist returned without a pause. "If you would like to take a seat in the bar, I can send her along as soon as she's free."

"Make sure it is the manager," Sherlock answered. He opened his identity card and put it on the reception desk. The shadowy man disappeared through a narrow door. "We're not intending to make trouble here," Sherlock went on. "We would just like some anomalies cleared up as part of an investigation into the murder of Sofia Pennington. We'll wait in the bar."

He swept the card back into his hand and went through the double doors at the end of the foyer, and John followed him.

The first thing that John noticed was the smell. It was overpowering, and for a second he struggled to breathe it in. There was an unmistakeable undertone of stale alcohol and sweat with a hint of ancient sick, and someone had tried to cover this with some sort of flowery, powdery air freshener. He swallowed to settle his leaping stomach. They were approached by another smiling girl, who was wearing far too much perfume. She said something to Sherlock that John couldn't hear over the noise of the music blaring out on what seemed like thousands of speakers, and the result of which they were led to a little table surrounded with velvet chairs at the side of the room.

It wasn't hugely full, but then it was still early in the day. There were a group of city boys already living into their evening. The rest were individuals sitting at tables looking emotionless.

The waitress spoke to John, but he couldn't hear her, and was struggling to read her lips in the semi darkness. She leant across the table, displaying her cleavage, until her face was just inches from his.

"I said, did you want a drink?" she asked again.

"Yes please. Tonic water."

"With vodka?"

"No, neat."

There was something of a laugh hidden on her face, he thought, but he chose to ignore it and concentrate on defeating the current invasion of his senses.

Sherlock was sitting still, watching a girl dance around a pole on a little stage, but he didn't seem to be properly concentrating on her. He twisted his ID card around and around in his hands. John leaned to gently take it from him. He was betting on Anderson over Lestrade, but was surprised to find Sherlock's own face and name printed on it.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

He couldn't hear himself over the noise, and was about to ask again, but Sherlock leaned so that his mouth was close to John's left ear.

"Remember when you chinned the Superintendent?"

John nodded. Sherlock's breath ticked his ear delightfully.

"The woman who works on the ID database was impressed. Apparently he'd been a little over familiar with his hands a couple of times. When I returned, she arranged to make an ID for me as a thank you."

John frowned. "But I was the one who chinned her."

"Yes. She said she could get one for you too, but I forgot. It doesn't matter; you'll hardly need one without me."

John pulled his duck-face.

"If you keep looking like that, I'll find more ways to mildly annoy you," Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows. "You were all about my smile a couple of hours ago."

"The smile's good. The… whatever that thing is, is_ better._"

John grinned.

Sherlock moved closer. His nose was almost in John's hair now. "The grin is very, _very_ good."

"This is hardly the place…"

Sherlock frowned. "Really? I thought that it's what this place was for. It's not like it's a church. Oh my, you in a church…" Sherlock closed his eyes.

John grinned. It was still too hot and claustrophobic in here, but he found he was beginning to enjoy himself a little after all.

They were interrupted by another woman bringing their tray of drinks. She didn't look like one of the workers though; her shirt was satin and unbuttoned further down than was strictly necessary, but she was wearing a short skirted business suit over it.

"Hello, Mr Holmes," she said. "I believe you wanted to discuss something with me." John squinted so that he could make out the words.

"Yes, Ms Halden, I presume," Sherlock replied.

The woman sat down on a little chair close to Sherlock. She ignored John entirely, and he could recognise the dance of someone trying to flirt with Sherlock Holmes. He didn't feel a jot of jealousy, and Sherlock didn't react to her at all. He could only just catch their conversation, and most of what he could make out was via lip reading.

"There was a girl who was murdered," the woman said. "I'm sorry, I don't know the name."

"Sofia Pennington," Sherlock answered.

"She's not one of mine," Ms Halden answered. "I know all my staff personally. They all have employment contracts, we manage their income tax and their National Insurance payments. It's all completely above board; I can get you a copy of a contract if you want."

"What happened to Sheila Pullman?"

There was a flicker of annoyance over Ms Halden's face. "Silly girl got herself pregnant. Of course the company offered to help with that, but she chose not to go down that route."

"So employment rights don't extend to maternity leave?" John asked. "Where is she now?"

Ms Halden's eyes flickered to him just briefly before she spoke to Sherlock. "She offered to resign and we accepted her resignation. It was all very sad, but in our line of work it's to be expected. It's no different than what would happen in the armed services."

John bristled, but Sherlock shot him a look and he stayed quiet and sipped his cold drink instead.

Their conversation dragged, and John lost interest in fighting to follow it. He was feeling fairly tired and miserable by the time Ms Halden stood to leave. She shook both of their hands and told them their drinks were complimentary. John watched her leave and wondered how relieved she felt that she didn't have to wear the skimpy waitressing outfits herself, or the even skimpier dancing costumes.

"Is that it then?" John asked. "Can we go?"

Sherlock frowned, and then leaned in to talk again.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you couldn't hear the whole conversation. I've asked to spend a further hour here and I've been told I can talk to any of the girls that I wish. She'll speak to the floor manager who will instruct the girls to answer my questions honestly."

John's heart sank, but he settled down on the chair again.

He saw the first girl being spoken to, and she approached the table happily. She answered Sherlock's questions with a smile on her face. No, Ms Halden was a safe employer; she'd worked at other bars where she wasn't looked after but it was different here. They couldn't be seen but there were bouncers all around the bar floor and there are cameras monitoring the private rooms. None of the girls can be abused here. Here was safe.

Sherlock let her go and they were approached by a redhead.

It's very safe here at Kitten's. She knew of other bars where the girls weren't looked after but it was different here. They are bouncers all around the bar floor and spycams in the private rooms. None of the girls can be abused here. It was safe here.

She left and John looked at Sherlock whose face was inscrutable. A brunette appeared.

Kitten's is a very safe club. She was glad to be here, rescued from her previous place where the girls weren't looked after. It's different here. A positive utopia for dancing girls. They have bouncers and CCTV to protect them. The girls can't be abused here. Kitten's is as safe as home.

The girl walked away. John found he could stand it no more, and he leaned to catch Sherlock's attention.

"I need to go outside for a bit," he said.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"I'm fine," John assured him. "I just need some fresh air."

"I'll come too," Sherlock said.

"No, stay and finish the job; you'll learn far more than I will. You can tell what they're not saying." There was a faint look of pride on Sherlock's face, and John smiled. "I'll wait with Richard until you're done. I've got my phone if I need you."

He stood and dragged his weary body up. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest over the sound of the music, and he hoped that he really did just need some air. He made his way back up the steps and onto the street. It wasn't exactly the fresh scent of English meadows, seeing as he was in the middle of Soho and it was approaching rush hour. He did feel slightly better though.

He made his way to Richard, and was glad the church person had left by now.

Richard smiled to see him. "How are you?" he asked.

"Me? I'm fine," John answered. "How are you? I'm assuming the hideous mess of your face is mostly superficial?"

Richard smiled back. "Yeah. The tooth's lost forever, but I can do without it."

"I take it there's been no word from Sheila?"

His face fell. "No. There's nothing."

John chose not to tell him about the potential pregnancy. It seemed more decent to wait until that was verified.

"Well Sherlock's in there now," he said, forcing cheerfulness. "If anyone can find her current whereabouts, he can."

Richard smiled and nodded. He looked slightly as though he'd given up a fair amount hope though.

John felt a wave of nausea wash over him, and he forced the cheerfulness back to the surface while he briskly rubbed his arms and hopped. "You should get inside somewhere, mate. It's going to turn chilly tonight."

"I'll stay a while longer. Brian is going to bring some soup for me later anyhow. Did you want some? I'm sure he can bring two."

John thought there was nothing he wanted less than something else in his stomach.

"I'm fine," he shuddered and stamped his feet.

A large, black sedan pulled slowly into the road, and John realised he was wrong; there was indeed something he wanted less than food.

It glided to a predictable stop, and the rear door popped open.


	18. Mycroft's car

Chapter 18

The car stayed motionless while John refused to get in. Eventually he ducked down to look at Mycroft sitting on the rear seat with a face like a smacked backside.

"Trust me," John said. "You really don't want me getting into your car just now."

"Indulge me."

John stood up straight again and took a couple of cleansing breaths. He looked at Richard.

"If Sherlock comes out, can you tell him I've gone for a quick drive with the moron? I'll be back in a bit."

Richard looked surprised, but he nodded, and John got into the car.

He sat down on the seat next to Mycroft and closed the door. It smelled in here too, of leather and polish, and his stomach writhed again.

"What do you want, Mycroft? You warned Sherlock off already, and he's taken your comments on board."

"Clearly he hasn't."

"He has!" John snapped. "He heard you; he just disagreed with you."

"John, one thing that you need to understand is that…"

John found he couldn't fight both his stomach and his temper at the same time.

"Oh please! Can we not have one of your little 'you don't understand Sherlock,' speeches. You know what? I think I do. I don't need to know what he was like as a child, I don't need to read his sodding school reports, and I don't need any input from you. I know what he's like _now_, and that seems significantly more important that what he might have been like twenty years ago."

Mycroft actually looked surprised. John felt he would like to continue and put Mycroft properly in his place, but prudence told him to keep his mouth firmly closed for a few minutes.

Mycroft recovered. "John, have you given any consideration to how you will handle yourself when he loses interest in you?"

"I have plenty of experience in handling myself, thank you." He didn't even notice the double entendre until Mycroft winced.

"His mind wanders," Mycroft insisted. "He moves from passion to passion picking up, absorbing, consumed by one thing, and then forgetting it entirely as he's focussed fully on the next thing. When you find that this… _phase_ of his is over, and he will abandon it at some point, you will never be able to get him back again."

John was almost embarrassed by Mycroft's desperation. The fear, the anxiety, was entirely for his brother, only masked by a thin veil of concern for John's wellbeing.

Unfortunately his stomach was lurching again, so he was unable to share any of this.

He waited, staring out of the window until he was calm again.

"How long has he played the violin for?" he asked quietly.

"Since he was four."

"Right. And the bees? How long has he had the fascination with bees?"

"Since infanthood, but these things are differ…"

"And the science stuff. That's not a sudden development either, is it?"

"No, but…"

"The thing is, Mycroft, the thing that you continuously and consistently forget, is that Sherlock is not like you. You share one fairly impressive, obviously important skill, but that's pretty much as far as it goes. You can't understand Sherlock's preference to be with people when you hate company. You still don't understand why he became a detective rather than an academic. You don't see how important emotions actually are to him. He gets it wrong perhaps 90 per cent of the time, but you don't seem to ever have observed how much of a kick he gets out of the remaining ten per cent. You think that's a flaw? You have no clue, _no clue_ that that 10 per cent makes him a million times better than you, with your fancy car and your self-important club, and your Christmas card list with nobles and dignitaries on it. You're the man never gets anything wrong because you never triy anything in the first place. You don't understand any of what Sherlock is, and that scares you half to death! I understand that, I really do, but don't look to protect me from Sherlock, and certainly don't look to protect him from me! We'll both be spending our time protecting each other, and to my mind the biggest threat to Sherlock right now, is you." John took a deep breath. "Now let me out."

"I'll take you back to the Hopkins Street."

"No, seriously; let me out now."

He swallowed hard and turned to hide his face against the window. Mercifully, the car stopped at the side of the road, and John managed to escape. They were still deep in Soho and quite a distance from the main thoroughfares, nonetheless, John could only find a slightly quieter lane where he squatted and tried to throw up as discretely as he could.

He could hear the sounds of footsteps hurrying away from him.

After a minute or so, he glanced around and found that the front half of the black sedan was still there by the side of the road at the end of his alleyway. He shook his head and continued away from it on a round about route back to the nightclub.

Sherlock had finished his interviews and was outside talking to Richard and Brian from the church soup kitchen. John noticed that Sherlock's face had taken on that glassy quality and faint smile that he used when he was learning a hell of a lot more from someone than they thought he was. He looked up and noticed John coming towards him.

"What did Mycroft…" He broke off and his nose twitched.

John refused to be drawn into it, and he stood smartly and held his hand out to the church man.

"Hello, I hear you're a friend of Richard here."

Richard's look suggested that 'friend' might be something of a stretch.

"Yes, hello. I'm Brian from St. Agnes. Are you a friend of Jesus?"

"Yes actually; the cheeky sod owes me a pint."

Brian guffawed loudly, and continued laughing for quite some time. "Oh, if we can't share God's love in laughter, then where is the right place for it?" He wiped his eyes. "Well, it was lovely to meet you both, Sherlock, and er…"

"John Watson."

"Ah, lovely to meet you, John." He shook John's hand. "I'm glad young Richard has some mortal friends working with him too."

"Yes, indeed."

Brian ambled off, and Richard thoughtfully drank some of the cup of steaming soup he was holding. "I think he's OK in small doses," he said.

"He seems bright and friendly," John said chirpily. "And he's keeping you warm out here, so that's something."

"He's fine. He's just a bit keen on the God stuff, that's all."

They all watched as he turned the corner.

"Right, good," Sherlock said. "I'm taking John home now."

"Wait a second," John protested. "Are you OK, Richard? Do you want us to hang around for a bit?"

"No, that's fine…" he started.

"Good, because we can't. John needs to go home, and I can't trust him to get there by himself."

He put a firm hand on John's shoulder, and John was slightly shocked by how angry and upset he looked.

"OK," he said quietly. "It's all right, I'm coming."

He let Sherlock lead him away, and called goodbye to Richard over his shoulder.

They walked the shortest possible route back to the main road, where Sherlock barged his way through tired commuters to snag the first taxi. John feared that he'd return and seize him, pushing him through like he was gallantly protecting a labouring woman, so he made his best effort to squeeze through and get to there under his own steam. He managed perfectly ably, but Sherlock held the door open for him anyway, and gently supported his arm in a completely unnecessary way as he got in.

John was about to bitterly complain, but Sherlock looked so tired and withdrawn that he didn't. Sherlock gave the address and sat back. He looked at John.

"How's your stomach now?" he asked.

"It's fine. Much better." John smiled but Sherlock looked unconvinced. "I really am fine. It was one, very quick, very short vomit, and I instantly felt better for it. I promise you." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I'm fine."

Sherlock looked carefully at him. "The problem I have is that you promised you'd let me know if you got into difficulty. You assured me that you would."

"But I wasn't in any difficulty."

"You also said that we'd start worrying about the new vomiting when it had gone on for twenty-four hours."

"But I've eaten plenty in that time. I'm not concerned because I've consumed far more than I've lost."

"But you said twenty-four hours."

"I know." John sighed. "I'm sorry, OK? It honestly wasn't that bad this time. That's why I didn't think to even call you; it was over and done with before it was any issue at all."

"I should have let you eat more slowly."

"Perhaps, maybe. Please. Don't worry about it. I'm telling you I'm fine now."

Sherlock sniffed. "Good. I'll ask Mrs Hudson to cook you a nice beef stroganoff when we get home. With extra cream and extra mushrooms."

John could pretty much feel himself turning green.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quietly. "Do you need me to stop the cab?"

John shook his head. Half a minute later he wiped his forehead and nodded. Sherlock signalled the driver, and as soon as he pulled in, John jumped out to alarm another set of innocent pedestrians.

It was over quickly and he got back into the cab for the last two streets. He sat miserably and shivered slightly, and Sherlock scooted up to him to wrap his arm around his shoulder. It wasn't the best share of body warmth he'd ever experienced, but John was grateful for it anyway.

He was still shivery when they got home, and he walked upstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Sherlock followed sedately and stood in the kitchen doorway taking his gloves and coat off and watching John. John did his level best to stand steadily, which was hard so he leaned casually against the work surface, and he tried not to look upset, which was even harder, and there was nothing to help him.

"I'm fine," he told the table.

"I want you to go back to bed," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, I know. We said half an hour, remember?"

"For three days."

John shook his head. "It's really not necessary."

"I think it is. No, listen," he said, when John shook his head again, "you were doing better earlier in the week. When we watched your diet carefully and you didn't do too much, you were pretty much normal again, and now you're back to this! You're not well! You need to rest."

John shook his head again and refused to look at him.

Sherlock came closer and put his hands on John's shoulders, but still John couldn't meet his eye.

"You're not well," Sherlock said again.

"I know," John answered.

When Sherlock pulled him into a hug, he didn't resist.

"Please, John," Sherlock said quietly. "Please will you do this one thing, just for me? Please? I'll stay with you, I'll entertain you, I'll play my violin until you sleep if you want. I'll even move the telly into the bedroom if that will help. Please, will you just stay still for just three days and get a little stronger?"

John felt Sherlock's voice vibrating through his body as he spoke, and he could hear Sherlock's heart beating, slow and steady. He felt that this put him at quite a disadvantage.

"OK," he said quietly. "All right, I'll do it."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said. He pulled away from John. "Now that that's settled, perhaps you could explain why you didn't vomit in Mycroft's car when you had the _perfect_ opportunity to!"

John sniggered and wiped his face.

"What did he want, anyway?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not completely sure. I think it was supposed to be the 'if you hurt my brother, I'll beat you up' talk, but he got it spectacularly wrong. I told him to bog off."

"Good."

"They weren't my exact words, but the feeling was definitely there."

Sherlock smiled. "I'll get you some clean pyjamas. You go and settle down."

Before John could even lever himself fully upright, they heard the sound of someone clattering up the stairs. Sherlock scowled and pounced towards the door, but Lestrade was in the room, panting, before he had the opportunity to close it.

"We can't help you right now," Sherlock snapped. "John's unwell. He needs to go to bed. You'll have to do this on your own."

Lestrade continued panting and glanced at John.

"I'm fine," John said. "I can't work for a bit, but other than that I'm fine. He's overreacting."

Sherlock's scowl turned towards him, but he just shrugged.

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade said, "without wishing to be disrespectful, I can do without John. I need you though. There's been another one."


	19. Blood

**Two quick notes: One - I'm behind in replying to reviews; I am very sorry, and intend to do much better today to get caught up. Thank you all so much for every single comment you leave; it gives me joy.**

**Two - You know how a couple of you found my previous cliff-hangers a little bit cruel? I apologise in advance.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter 19

Sherlock hesitated. It wasn't a long hesitation, but it was just enough for John to cut in.

"Same MO?" He surreptitiously hid his hands in his armpits to warm them.

"No. This one was bloody. We think there's a partial recording of it too. Just a leg in black trousers for less than three seconds before it cuts out."

"You don't need me then," Sherlock said. "You have a whole forensics team to work on that."

"The forensics team can't do much with three seconds of trousers," John said. "I'm going to be in bed anyhow; you might as well go."

There was another hesitation before Sherlock firmly shook his head. "No, I'm staying here with John."

"I'm fine," John said again.

Lestrade frowned at him. "Are you sure? You look like you're about to keel over."

Sherlock glanced at him too and also frowned. "You really should sit down."

John thought of arguing, but instead settled for sinking down into one of the kitchen chairs.

"I really need to stay here," Sherlock said. "You can do the wifi thing again."

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, not with this. There's a serial killer out there; it's too great a chance that someone else will die. I'll be fine here. If you want you can send Mrs Hudson up to babysit, but please go now."

Sherlock almost relented but overcame himself and stamped his foot. "No!" He turned on Lestrade. "This is not acceptable! The new victim came from Red Hot Mamas, didn't she?"

"What?" John said.

"Yes," Lestrade answered. "How did you…?"

"Of course she did!" Sherlock shouted. "John worked that out with his head down the toilet! How is the Metropolitan Police Force quite this incompetent?"

"Seriously, what?" John said.

"It's all there on your laptop!" Sherlock snapped. He stormed past Lestrade to seize John's laptop and he opened it and put it down on the kitchen table. His dramatic moment was slightly diminished by the flashing 'opening' bar which hung on the screen for what seemed like hours.

"It's been a bit slow lately," John said.

Sherlock looked up to him to frown at him, and for a split second, John was sure he was about to break into a laugh. He hung on though and stood and turned to Lestrade.

"There's a clear pattern. John's got it all mapped out on his laptop. The killer is targeting specific girls at specific websites. They've all been working for at least six months, they work at least five days a week, and they all work throughout the weekend. He's working backwards through websites started with the oldest ones first."

John frowned and turned his laptop screen towards himself. It was open now, and he worked his way through a couple of menus to find the spreadsheet that he'd organised from his sickbed. He looked through some lists, organised them differently and looked up.

"BabesRus is next then," John said. "Miss Mystique, Bodacious Boo, and Petite Monique, are the top runners there." he frowned. "I doubt those are their real names."

"We can contact the websites and make sure the girls are safe," Lestrade nodded. "Thank you. It doesn't catch us the killer though."

"Arrange a sting," Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock, come here a second," John said.

Sherlock frowned but came closer to him anyway. He had clearly assumed that there was something to see on the laptop, so he leaned over John slightly. John gently put his hand on Sherlock's neck to draw him closer. He positioned Sherlock's ear by his mouth.

"All I'm going to do is sleep," he murmured. "You could be out there catching a killer. Trust me, the reward for such an action would be rich and generous. Please go."

Sherlock's eyes met his for a second before he stood up and looked at Lestrade.

"Fine. Text me the address. I'll follow you within the hour."

Lestrade sagged with relief. "OK, thank you." He looked at John. "Thank _you._"

John nodded briefly, and Lestrade left the room.

Sherlock looked at John. "OK, let's get you nice and comfortable. I _will_ do as you suggest and install Mrs Hudson upstairs as a temporary guard, and don't bother telling me you're fine, because you're clearly not, and you know that as well as me. Come on: bedroom!"

John pulled himself up to his feet, every joint and muscle in his body protesting about this.

"By the way," Sherlock said, "I think I it's possible I might be in love with you." John blinked at him. "I'll let you know for sure as soon as I've verified it."

"Thank you," John said, feeling distinctly dazed.

"Good. I'll get your clothes sorted. Is there anything else you need from upstairs?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Sherlock smiled at him before he dashed upstairs. John breathed a very long and very slow breath. He tried to work out what the response should have been, and whether it would still hold after several minutes of conversation pause, but he came up with nothing and he staggered through the bedroom, where he sat on Sherlock's bed to remove his shoes. He realised that the only things stopping him lying down was the fact he'd have to sit up again to change his clothes, and that might prove impossible. When he realised this, he knew that he really was pretty ill. He wondered whether to tell Sherlock, but the thought of Sherlock outside, working properly again after the long weeks of being cooped up at John's sickbed was too good to pass up the opportunity He wanted him out there again, happy and calm and living his life, and he was ninety per cent certain that he really was just tired.

Sherlock came back down the stairs with several books which he put on the bedside table and pyjamas which he tossed onto the bed.

John didn't have time to say anything at all before Sherlock dashed out again, and he heard the sound of the kettle being filled and cupboards being opened and closed. He smiled and started pulling his clothes off. He was changed before the kettle finished, and he crawled into the bed holding back a grateful groan.

Sherlock came back with a tray containing water, tea and a packet of biscuits. The safety bowl was balanced upturned on his head.

He put down the tray and put the bowl on the bed. "Just in case," he said.

"Thank you," John said. "Really, thank you."

Sherlock grinned. "You're welcome."

John realised then that Sherlock wasn't expecting any kind of return at all. He was just enjoying the newly found emotion. Happiness flooded into him and he smiled again.

"You enjoy yourself now," he said. He frowned. "You do understand that any reward might have to wait until I'm feeling better, don't you?"

"Of course! I predict that after twenty-four hours in bed, you'll be desperate for any kind of physical activity at all. Twenty-four hours after that, I'll probably be able to suggest anything. Trust me; I'm prepared to wait. I'll chat to Mrs Hudson on the way out so she can come up and refill your tea. It's camomile."

"Thank you. See you later." John replied.

He waited until the voices in the hall downstairs had stopped, and the front door had opened and closed. He couldn't hear Mrs Hudson coming upstairs straight away, so he rolled himself out of the bed and staggered through to the bathroom. He threw up quietly until he heard Mrs Hudson on the stairs when he forced himself to stop, and he flushed and crept back to his bed.

He was shivering again and it seemed to be taking an age for him to warm up. He tried his hardest to stop shaking and look vaguely healthy before Mrs Hudson got into the room, but from the look on her face when she came in and saw him, he hadn't managed quite as well as he had hoped.

"Is there anything you need?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine. I'm just tired and got too cold. I'm going to go to sleep for a bit, and I'm sure I'll be fine in a few hours."

She looked sceptical, but she left him alone. He had a very small mouthful of the water and settled down to sleep.

It was about an hour later when his phone rang. He groped around for it, fuzzy headed, and answered.

"Hello?"

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Yes, I'm fine. I've just woken up, that's all."

"Oh. Can you look something up on your computer?"

John grimaced. "Yeah, OK. Give me a tick."

He pulled himself out of bed and padded through to the kitchen where he sat down with his computer. It too had fallen asleep and John wearily waited for it to open.

"Are you OK, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, coming towards him.

"I'm fine. Sherlock wants me to do some research."

He was aware of a tinny voice shouting from his phone, and he put it to his ear again.

"OK, OK, hold your horses. We're just getting ourselves together a bit." He sniffed.

"Have you been crying?" Sherlock asked.

"What? No, of course not."

"You sound congested."

"You sound annoying. Here we go; what do you want."

"I need you to go onto Red Hot Mama's website and find…"

"Hang on! Two seconds. I'm switching you to speaker and sending Mrs Hudson out the room while we search through porn."

Mrs Hudson shook her head in mild disgust, but she went back into the living room.

"OK, what did you need?" John asked.

"I need you to look at the profiles. Are there any who are expected online who haven't turned up yet today?"

"Hang on."

He searched some more. "Yes. Two are showing 'available soon.'"

"Is one a brunette?"

"Yep. Lucile."

"Lucile? Just that?"

"Just that."

"OK, thanks. I might need to call you again later."

"I'll look forward to it."

The phone disconnected and Mrs Hudson came back. He closed his computer again quickly.

"John, I know you don't like a fuss, but are you sure you don't have a fever? You look like you have a fever."

John didn't ask how she could assess someone's temperature just on sight; he knew he could do it, so there was no reason to believe she couldn't too.

"I don't know. I think I certainly got a bit chilled earlier, and I haven't done a great job of replacing my fluids. I think that's all it is. Some water and a sleep will probably sort me out."

"Are you sure?"

"I hope so anyway. I tell you what though, Sherlock's three days in bed idea is looking somewhat enticing right now."

She smiled. "I can't help but think you'll be restless again by tomorrow morning. I'll give you until about 10:30. 11:30 if Sherlock's with you."

John grinned at her. "I hope you're right. I feel like an old, old man right now. The thought of keeping up with him is even more terrifying than usual."

"Leave your phone out here and go back to bed. If he calls again I can do whatever research he needs."

"I'm not sure that's advisable."

"Oh, I can cope, love." She took his phone and his laptop.

John stayed seated at the table for a couple of minutes before he stood up and rummaged in the cupboard for his good medical box. He took his instant thermometer out of its bag and quietly placed it in his ear. A couple of seconds later it beeped and he looked. His temperature was only 38.7 degrees. A fever, certainly, but not the heights that suggested a return of the infection. He sighed and popped two paracetamol out of a blister pack. He swallowed them quickly, and couldn't help gulp down several more mouthfuls of water. He put the glass down and smiled wryly, feeling that he was probably a bit right about the dehydration, and he resolved to do better. He refilled his glass and took it back through to the bedroom.

Five minutes later he threw up with such force and violence that the noise brought Mrs Hudson running from the living room. He was still coughing and spitting into the safety bowl when she came in.

"Oh, John!"

"Give me a minute," he whispered hoarsely.

She did leave the room, but he suspected she was just in the hallway outside, and he had no ability to make himself vomit quietly left.

There was a decent pause after he'd finished before she called to see if she could come in.

"Yeah," John said. There was nowhere to hide his bowl.

Mrs Hudson wasn't cowed by it anyway. "Give it here," she said.

"No, absolutely not. It's bad enough to use it in the first place. I'm certainly going to wash it up for myself."

"John, you're not well."

"So everyone keeps telling me. I assure you I'm well enough for this."

He stopped arguing and just carried his bowl to the bathroom, stamping his feet slightly more loudly than was strictly necessary.

Mrs Hudson hovered in the doorway while he cleaned up.

"What do you want?" she asked. "More fluids, of course, but anything else?"

"I don't know," he muttered.

"I'll get you water and a mint tea. I always find mint tea settles my tummy."

John wondered if mint tea would succeed where Kytril had failed, but he let her go and bustle around helpfully anyway. His stomach was already griping again, and there was no point hiding the nausea now, so he knelt by the toilet to throw up some more. He watched the rancid fluid flow out of him and he shuddered and blinked back tears. He was sick again, and it confirmed his suspicions. As soon as he could he leant against the wall.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes?" She poked her head around the door. "What do you need, dear?"

"Can you get my phone please?"

"Of course."

She returned with it, and John dialled Sherlock.

"What is it?" Sherlock answered.

"Are you nearly done?"

"Why? What is it?"

"It's not urgent, and there's no need to panic, but I need to go the hospital just for a check-up."

"Why? What is it?"

"There's blood in my vomit."


	20. Admission

**OK, so when I posted this morning, I knew I was being a touch cruel (though I was entertained by the idea), but I had already written most of this chapter. My intention was to put you out of your misery as soon as I possibly could. Though secretly, I'm quite pleased that a good number of you had the suspense, because suspense is a fun thing to play with. Pip xxx**

Chapter 20

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Sherlock said, and he disconnected the call.

John sighed and called him straight back.

"Stop calling me!" Sherlock shouted. "You're vomiting blood!"

"No, I'm…"

The phone went dead again. John took the opportunity to throw up a bit more. He made his brain assess how much blood was coming out of him, and monitor its colour and thickness. The phone was ringing before he'd finished gagging over the job and he forced himself to steadiness so he could answer it.

"Have you called an ambulance?" Sherlock barked. "Because you should."

"I don't need an ambulance; I can get there under my own steam."

"I'll call one." The phone disconnected.

John grimaced and called Lestrade.

"John? What the hell's going on?"

"I need you to get Sherlock's phone from him and cancel the ambulance."

"Are you sure? He said…"

"I know! Yes I'm sure. Please, Greg, just… sort it out."

He disconnected and threw up weakly. The retching was properly painful now, and his ribs ached with the effort of it.

His phone rang. It was Sherlock. He didn't say anything; he just let the silence hang on the call.

"You've got the wrong idea," John said eventually. "I'm not spewing blood all over the bathroom; there's a small amount in the general gunk I'm bringing up. If I were a patient of mine, I wouldn't be too worried. But there is blood there, so I need to get it checked out. That's all this is."

He shook, and his phone arm ached, but he still held the phone to his ear.

There was a sniff from the other end.

"Please don't cry," he said. "I know why this is terrifying you, but I'm not scared. I'm not happy, but I'm not scared. If I'm anything I'm tired and annoyed."

"I should never have left you alone," Sherlock said.

"Of course you should. Hang on." He left the line open but put the phone down as the retching started again, and he coughed and spat. Mrs Hudson came in with a glass of water for him and stood holding it until he'd finished. He took the glass but didn't drink any. He picked up his phone. "Sorry." He sniffed and shivered.

"I should be there."

"You're coming now. Are you in a cab?"

"Lestrade's driving me."

"Good. Ask if he'll mind giving us a lift to the hospital. I'd rather not risk a cab."

"I'll make him."

"Just ask politely. I'm hanging up now so I can get ready."

"No, wait until I'm there."

"If I put my clothes on now, we can get straight out the door when you're here."

"OK then."

"I'll see you in a minute or two, OK?"

"OK."

John disconnected and used the towel rack to slowly pull himself up.

"You should probably stay where you are," Mrs Hudson said. "Don't move."

John didn't argue, but he didn't stop either. He sat down on the side of the bath for a rest for a second before heaving himself upright. Mrs Hudson put out a hand. He let her take his arm but tried not to lean on her. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face with it before they went slowly back to Sherlock's room where he sat down on the bed.

"Will these clothes do?" Mrs Hudson asked, gathering the ones from the floor.

John was too preoccupied with being sick into his towel to answer.

"I really think you should just lie down and wait for Sherlock. Do you think you need an ambulance?"

John shook his head. "I'm fine," he muttered. He realised how ridiculous he must look making that statement, sweat flowing fairly freely down his face, pale, shaking and with a blooded towel on his lap. The thought of it made him smile and give the most low energy snigger that he'd ever known.

He put his towel down and started pulling his t-shirt off. He didn't fight Mrs Hudson when she instantly helped him. He put his thicker, cleaner t-shirt back on and then they looked at each other.

"I think I'm going to wait for Sherlock to remove my trousers," he said.

"Leave them on, John, love. If you had a patient turn up in pyjamas, would you berate them for not being underdressed? You told me off for getting up and dressed that time and I only had a cold."

He nodded, and then bundled his towel up to be sick into it again. Mrs Hudson rubbed the top of his back while he did so. She was gentler than Sherlock, but still calming and soothing. He thought of how uncharitable he'd been when he'd thought she favoured Sherlock over him. She did, of course, but that didn't mean she wasn't loving and caring to him when he had no reason to expect it at all. He realised that he was suddenly in a position where he was more cared for than he ever had been in his life before. It made him weep briefly.

"Give that here," Mrs Hudson said, and she took the towel from him. She gathered it up with his t-shirt and took them both away. John slowly turned around and put his feet up on the bed.

Mrs Hudson returned with the bowl and the glass of water.

"Here, drink some of this."

"I'd better not," he said. "If they want me on a nil by mouth, I'll have given them a nice head start. If not, they'll give me something to drink there."

They were interrupted by the noise of footsteps flying up the stairs. By John's calculation, Sherlock had taken the stairs in groups of three with two twos at the end. There was the sound of a stumble, a skid and a loud swear on the landing, and then Sherlock was tumbling into the room with them. He stopped and stared at John.

"Hello," John said.

"Shit," Sherlock said, looking at him.

"I look as good as that, do I?"

Sherlock gazed around the room. "You'll need a warm jumper on. It's turned cold out there."

"OK."

"I'll get one," Mrs Hudson said. "You sort out his shoes and socks." She left them alone.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and picked up John's socks from the floor.

"I really can manage by myself," he said, sitting up and taking them from him.

Sherlock let him have them.

"Come here," John said.

Sherlock shifted just far enough for John to wrap his arms around him. Sherlock returned the hug. John held on firmly and calmly, firmly rubbing Sherlock's back, thinking that it was so much easier to demonstrate his current strength to Sherlock now that they were officially on hugging terms.

"I'll be fine," he whispered. "This is just a precaution, OK?"

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder.

"Pass me my shoes," John said, and he started pulling his socks on. He'd managed one before he gagged again and needed to stop.

Sherlock handed him the bowl, and he spat into it. He retched again and spat pitifully.

"This would be a lot better if there was more inside me to throw up," he muttered.

"Give that here," Sherlock said.

John was not remotely surprised when Sherlock peered into the bowl, examining the contents.

"See," John said. "A small amount of blood in my vomit. Not enough to indicate a haemorrhage pouring blood into my stomach, but enough to need to go back to the hospital. OK? If I hadn't promised you I would, I'd probably give the whole thing a miss."

Sherlock nodded and did look slightly calmer. He smiled slightly. "If you fancy another chance to throw up in Mycroft's car, I can demand he sends one over to us. I'm sure he owes me a favour."

John smiled but shook his head. "No, Lestrade's already here now. We might as well get this over with. Come on."

He pulled his other sock on, and was content to let Sherlock mess around with his shoes. Mrs Hudson came back with his oldest, warmest and most comforting jumper and he pulled it on.

"Right, help me up." He got to his feet. The room was swaying sufficiently for him not to complain when Sherlock took a firm grip of his arm. They slowly made their way into the kitchen, where Lestrade was waiting, looking anxious.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

John almost laughed at Sherlock's pronounced sigh and eye-roll.

"I'll admit, I've felt better," he said. "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem."

"I forgot," John said. "I'll need another towel for the journey." Mrs Hudson quickly got one for him. He looked at it and nodded. "OK. Let's go."

oOo

Several hours on and he was back lying on a hospital gurney in the Emergency department with another hospital robe tied around him, tucked under one of their uninspiring blankets. He thought, objectively, that Sherlock had been relatively well behaved so far. He had restrained himself during the joyous wait on the chairs while the first drunks of Friday evening had staggered in to wait with John. He'd not been too acerbic when John had patiently answered first the triage, then the nurses, then the doctor's questions with the same answers over and over again.

He had restricted himself to a glare when several test-tubes of blood were removed from John's arm, only muttering quietly afterwards that John clearly needed all the blood he had left, and they should learn to be thrifty with it. This was followed by a five minute monologue about his own ability to find trace elements in the smallest amounts of various substances, while John closed his eyes and smiled as this washed over him. Eventually he held his hand out to Sherlock, and Sherlock calmed when he was holding it.

He had even held his patience fairly well even though John was rapidly losing his, while listening to a dull argument about whether to try to get a sonographer to run a scan now, which might be difficult at this time of night, or to wait until Doctor Sprat ordered one himself, even though that wouldn't be until the morning.

Eventually John was cannulised and an anti-emetic patch was stuck onto his arm, and everyone agreed to let Doctor Sprat sort him out in the morning.

"Thus demonstrating that there really is no cause for concern," John said before Sherlock could start up.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock complained. "I should have taken you to a private hospital."

"The NHS saved my life a few weeks ago. Have a little gratitude."

"You might die in the night!"

"I won't die in the night. I have vomited the grand total of 20 or 30 mils of blood if that over the course of several hours. It only seems like more because it was in other liquids. That doesn't signify a major internal bleed, and if it did, I'd be unconscious by now. There's probably a tiny lesion in the lining of the stomach caused by too much throwing up, or I've just popped a blood vessel in my throat or something. The absolute worst it will be is a return of the infection, which they'll resolve with antibiotics. I promise you, I will not die."

Sherlock looked sulky about this, but he stopped arguing.

John closed his eyes and dozed while they waited for a porter to come and move him upstairs. Every now and again he woke up to throw up a little more, though this was growing more rare as the anti-emetic kicked in, or to cough loudly and blow his nose. Sherlock passed him tissues and paper towels and started to grow more miserable again.

"It'll be fine," John said, beginning to ache and shiver again. "I'll ask for pain meds and something to help me sleep when I'm upstairs."

Sherlock nodded glumly.

"Sherlock, I think you need to consider whether this is all getting a bit much for you." Sherlock glared at him, but John pushed on. "This is the other side of the coin that gives you all the good hormones when you think you might be in love with someone. You get all these different ones when you're watching them suffer. It's hard to do. You might want to properly think about whether it's really for you. It's not for everybody, and that's fine."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment looking horrified, and then he shook his head.

John watched him pace along the side of his bed and back again and his heart bled for him a little. He hoped he wasn't being literal there, before telling himself off for thinking hysterically.

Eventually a porter was found, and John was put into a wheelchair, his drip stand was clipped on, and he was wheeled up to the medical ward again. Sherlock was stopped at the door by duty nurse.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but visiting hours are over. You can come back tomorrow at ten."

"Ten?"

John smiled tiredly. "I think you've been a bit spoiled by how well they treated you last time. Visiting hours are there for a reason, Sherlock."

John was slightly alarmed to see Sherlock's eyes well up.

"Please," Sherlock said desperately. "Let me just see him to his bed, and then I'll go."

The nurse nodded and Sherlock was allowed to follow them into a darkened room with several other beds in it, all of which had their curtains drawn around them. John was pushed over to the bed in the corner, and with Sherlock's help he got out of the wheelchair and into the bed. Sherlock fussed around the bed for a while, straightening covers and pillows until John took his hand again.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. "I think you need to leave now."

Sherlock shook his head and tears flowed. He leant down to whisper in John's ear.

"Don't say that," he said. "Don't tell me to leave you again. I tried, remember? I tried for months and it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I watched you almost constantly. Mycroft was worried. We fought badly over it once, and he even tried sedating me because it was so hard. He thought it was like the drugs again, and it was, but it was so much worse. I just wanted to be near you so badly, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, so I spied on you, and I wrote you letters and made recordings on my phone and tried to make myself believe that you were just around the corner. I even went to France to see if the distance would help and it didn't, so I came home. It was agony. It was agony then, and that was when you were still trying to sleep with half of London. If it was that bad then, how could I possibly manage again now with all of the extra stuff? Don't tell me to leave you again, John. Even if you decide we shouldn't be physically together as a couple it'll hurt, but I'll still want to be close by. But I can't leave you. I think it would actually kill me if I tried it again."

Sherlock was gripping his hand so firmly it was almost painful. John bit his lip and nodded.

"OK. It's OK," he said. He wiped his eyes. "Thank you for telling me all of that. I did just mean go home and sleep for a few hours though. You can come back tomorrow at ten."

"Oh," Sherlock said sitting back.

"I'm a bit tired and everyone else is asleep. Hopefully you can take me home in the morning, but there's no one to discharge me now."

"Oh. OK." Sherlock nodded and wiped his eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Mm. And remind me when I'm home again that I need to find you some really world class therapy."

Sherlock grinned and kissed him good bye. "OK."


	21. Flu

Chapter 21

John slept poorly on and off through the night, occasionally woken by the beeping of his drip machine which became a little hysterical each time he rolled over and trapped its tube. There was also the sound of other people in the room. He was fairly sure someone was snoring loudly, but after being woken several times, it suddenly occurred to him that the snorer might well be him. His drug routine was out of sync with the rest of the ward, so he was woken to hear several other patients being offered whatever elixir they needed, and was then woken again to be given his own. One nurse very kindly tried to change his anti-emetic patch without waking him, but he woke nonetheless. On the other hand, the patch was clearly working now, and he was feeling significantly less nauseous. He was detached from his drip machine after just one bag of saline, and encouraged to just drink to rehydrate himself in the usual manner. Breakfast was being delivered far sooner than he expected, though he grumpily declined any, and then the ward was busy with catching up and morning rounds. He had drifted back off to sleep as soon as Doctor Sprat left him alone.

He was not surprised to be woken from his doze at two minutes past ten, when Sherlock noisily dropped a bag onto the visitor's chair by his bed. He'd have been annoyed by this if he hadn't been so delighted to see him.

"Morning," Sherlock said. "I've brought you your pyjamas, toothbrush and one of those ridiculous books you insist on reading."

"Thank you," John stretched and reached for a tissue to blow his nose. "I'd prefer t if you'd brought my clothes though. I want to go home."

"Tough. How was your night?"

"Fine." John cast his eyes over Sherlock. He was clean, but he hadn't bothered shaving which was unusual. It looked as though he'd forgotten to brush his hair, or he had, but he'd found enough to bother him that morning to mess it all up again. "Better than yours by the looks of it. Did you sleep at all?"

"A bit. I don't like being on my own in my bed anymore."

John grinned. "It's been one and a half nights of bed sharing."

"I adapt quickly."

"You really don't."

Sherlock smiled back, and John resisted the urge to reach out to smooth his hair down a little. Sherlock's hands were twitching too, and John wondered if he was also struggling to keep his hands off him. He coughed briefly, sneezed, and blew his nose again. On reflection, he thought, it was probably just a nervous twitch, brought on by too much strong coffee and not enough food.

Sherlock caught him looking and smiled. "How was your night really?"

"Really fine. It's true I'd have liked a little more unbroken sleep, but I haven't thrown up for about eight hours, and then it was just the water they'd given me, and there was no more blood. Also, Dr Sprat ordered the scan this morning and they searched and searched and could not find a bleed. Not even a small one. Yesterday I had let myself wonder if that oaf from Kitten's had knocked something when he punched my scar."

Sherlock frowned. "You told me he'd got you groin."

John held his eye for a second. "I'm pretty sure I said near my groin."

Sherlock's face cleared. "No, you lied to me, but apparently I've already forgiven you already. That's all good. In that case, I'll admit you have had a better night than mine."

"Trouble?" John was mildly ashamed of how much he hoped for some nice distracting trouble.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied with a frown. "He turned up at about six. Lestrade waited until seven. Mrs Hudson has been constantly flappy and I stopped being able to resist shouting at her."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"She didn't care. She continued to flap."

John held his hand out to him. "I take it Mycroft was more of the same?"

"No," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and looking more comfortable in doing so. "He seems to be taking a new tack, and was reacting with concern and offering support. He used the term 'my brother's partner' three times."

John sniggered.

"After a while, I got the impression he was trying to intimidate me somehow," Sherlock said.

"Did it work?"

"I'd just taken my partner to hospital when he was vomiting blood…"

"Had blood in my vomit."

"… so no, I was not going to be intimidated by a specific choice of words."

John smiled and took back his hand so that he could rub his face with it. He started coughing and that went on for a while. His ribs ached painfully and his whole torso felt bruised and strained. Eventually he finished and turned to face Sherlock's frown.

"It's just a cough."

"So you're feeling absolutely fine now then? Twelve hours ago, shaking, sweating, aching, bringing up blood, and after twelve hours in a hospital and almost no actual treatment, you're fine."

John sighed. "OK, I've felt better. I've felt worse too though, and they've been generous with their pain relief so I'm fine for now. And I'm prepared to admit that yesterday was a little scary, but not to the levels of hysteria that it sent some people."

Sherlock was about to respond, but the bickering was interrupted by the arrival of Doctor Sprat.

"You're awake now then," he said. "I was here half an hour ago, but you were asleep. I have more good news for you. Did you want your visitor to wait elsewhere?"

"No," Sherlock answered.

"It's fine," John agreed.

"Good. Well the bloods aren't giving any signs of a return of the infection."

"Really?" John asked, slightly confused by this news.

"Yes, really. You're wondering why you feel so rubbish then, aren't you? That'll be that flu you've got."

"Flu?"

"Yes. Had you not noticed?" Doctor Sprat beamed at him. "That's right; flu. I imagine it took hold so quickly because of your weakened immune system."

"But the blood," Sherlock said. "He was definitely vomiting blood."

"There was blood in my vomit."

"Well yes, the lining of John's stomach is very weak and probably quite damaged at the moment," Doctor Sprat said. "He probably just burst a blood vessel when he was being sick or something."

"Where did you get flu?" Sherlock asked, looking accusing.

"That's what I wondered too," Doctor Sprat said. "I assumed it must be in the household, because surely John wouldn't have been running around the streets of London rather than convalescing safely in his bed…."

"So I can go home?" John asked, ignoring this.

"Actually no," Doctor Sprat said. "You are severely anaemic at the moment; your bloods told us that much. You've let yourself get dehydrated I suspect too, and I fear for your kidneys. I'm going to spend some time trying to get your blood sugar and fluid levels back up, so I'm keeping you in another twenty-four hours for observation."

John groaned. "No, Clive, don't say that. It makes it sound like you don't trust me to look after myself properly."

"Yes, that's right." Doctor Sprat agreed with a bright smile. "I think clear fluids only for another six hours, and then I'll pick your meals specifically, if I can find anywhere in this blasted hospital to make a clear chicken broth for you that is. You'd be surprised how few people who work in catering who understand the difference between a soup and a broth. After that, you'll need to give yourself bland, simple foods for a good week, I'd suggest. Right, is that all fine with you?"

John pulled his duck face and refused to answer.

"It's fine with him," Sherlock said, with a smile dancing behind his eyes. "That's his happy face."

"You can't use up a hospital bed just for flu," John protested.

"But I can for flu with additional complications," Doctor Sprat returned. "I do regularly, and so do you, and let's neither of us forget that while it's viral right now, it's leaving you open for infections in your nose or your throat. Maybe you'll even get pneumonia!" he said cheerfully. "I've known it happen to people with a stronger immune system than yours." John ground his teeth. "Good then, that's settled." He filled a glass with water from the jug on John's bed table. "Start with this, I'll send some dioralyte later, and I'll come back in a couple of hours and see how you're getting on."

He gave them a little nod and ducked out of the curtained cubicle.

Sherlock grinned at John, who refused to smile back. He stood to get the glass of water which he held out to John. John refused to take it and continued to not smile. Sherlock tried to fight another smile and put the glass down again.

"Don't laugh at me," John said.

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm just happy."

John pouted. "Well you should bloody laugh. Laugh at the silly doctor who got himself admitted to hospital with flu."

"That's ridiculous and you know it. You were vomiting blood…"

"Had blood in my vomit."

"… and given that you'd had a major intestinal infection just under a month ago, that needed to be checked out. If it were me, you wouldn't quibble over a short hospital stay. You'd probably be grateful for it. _I'm _grateful for it; I'm clearly not capable of keeping you safe and well on my own. I really am very, very relieved."

He smiled broadly, and this time John gave in a little and smiled faintly back. This was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to wrap his arms around John to hug him tightly.

"I am very, very relieved," Sherlock said in his low, rumbling voice.

John let the hug linger for a while. He wondered when the novelty of just letting Sherlock squeeze him gently would wear off. He hoped it wasn't soon. Sherlock seemed to prefer the handholding, and there was no sign that his enjoyment of this was diminishing.

Eventually he pulled away. "Right then, you'd better pop outside and give Mrs Hudson a call to let them know. Call Greg too."

"Why?"

"Because they're worried."

"So? They're not in love with you."

"Mm," John said tiredly. "We need to start working on the concept of different types and levels of love. Just go and do it, will you?"

Sherlock nodded, resigned. "I'll give them two and a half minutes each, and that includes the time it takes them to answer the phone. I'll be back in ten minutes."

John nodded and watched him leave. He picked up the water and took a few sips and then flicked through the books that Sherlock had brought, but his attention wandered quickly. When the allotted ten minutes came and went, he settled down and closed his eyes again.

Sherlock woke him from a second light doze when he came back forty minutes later. He'd clearly spent time organising his features to suggest 'happy' and 'carefree', but John was not fooled.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Nothing." Sherlock frowned. "What's wrong with you, you look worse." He put a hand to John's temple, and his hand felt deliciously cool against John's skin. "You're hot again," he complained.

"Mm. I've got flu. I'm not due paracetamol for another twenty minutes, and they can't give me ibuprofen because of the bleed. Now what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Oh, Mrs Hudson told me to give you her love. I'm not sure how exactly I'm supposed to do that. Any love I'm able to give you will be coming directly from me. I can't divide it up and say that this proportion of it has come from her. Oh, and Lestrade said to get well soon, which is an equally ridiculous instruction."

John smiled. "And all that took forty minutes did it?"

"Mrs Hudson wanted to run a problem by me."

"Which was…?"

"It's not important right now. Do you want some more water?" Sherlock pointlessly topped up the glass.

"No, I want you to tell me what's going on with Mrs Hudson."

"Well I want you to tell me when you've been punched in the gut, or when you're not feeling well, so now we're even."

"Sherlock…."

Sherlock sat down and pointedly pulled out a book to read.

"So you're going to read at me now are you?" John asked.

"You need to rest."

"Yes, and you need to work. The adrenalin that had been keeping you going over concern over me has just sunk to the floor, so you need to work now."

Sherlock snarled. John would like to have given him an arch look full of moral superiority, but another attack of hacking cough came at him out of nowhere. Sherlock started reacting with classic 'I told you so' body language, until it went on a little long, and instead he sat John up and slapped his back until he could catch his breath.

Finally it stopped, and John was able to drink some more of the water. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look as he lay back down. John waited for his chest to settle down properly.

"So what's happening with Mrs Hudson?" he asked.

Sherlock guffawed. "Nothing is happening with Mrs Hudson," he sat forward though, and rested his steepled hands on John's bed. "Richard's with her."

"Richard Pullman? Why is he there?"

"Well he's there at the moment because Mrs Hudson takes in every hungry and cold stray she might come across…"

"And that's worked out very well for both you and me."

Sherlock flashed a smile. "Quite. He got there, of course, looking for me. He's had a message from his sister."

John tried to sit up, found it too much, and lay back down. He tried to cover it by leaning nonchalantly on his crooked arm. Sherlock watched him, bemused.

"In what form did this message take?" John asked.

"I couldn't get much information, but it seems to have been a text."

"Well why did he want your input then?"

"I don't know."

John rested his head back on the pillows. "Why don't you go home and see?"

"Because you're not being discharged until tomorrow morning. And that's just assuming you don't get pneumonia or some other infection or the plague or something."

"Yes," John agreed. "I need to be here. You don't need to be here."

"I'm not leaving you again. Last time I did that, you started erupting blood from every orifice." John sniggered, and Sherlock smiled at him. "Richard can wait until tomorrow."

"He's just a kid worried about his sister. Why don't you just go and talk to him."

"No."

"OK, ask him to come here then. You can interview him, find out about the text, and stay here, all at the same time."

Sherlock considered this before he shook his head. "It might overexcite you."

John rolled his eyes and then closed them. "You know what? I think it's going to take an awful lot to excite me at the moment. Call him in. Let's see what he has to say." He yawned. "While you arrange all that, I'll just have a little nap here, OK?"

Within two minutes, he was snoring.


	22. Ladies' man

**I promise you, I will be getting back to the plot any day now. Sorry. I'm full of cold, so this one has come out a little darker than I'd like. So plot and funny later. Promise. Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter 22

When John woke up, he had entirely forgotten where he was. In fact, he had almost forgotten who he was too. His head was filled with what seemed to be hot tar, possibly poured directly into his ears, and his mouth had been stuffed with cotton wool. He also appeared to have spent the past several hours inhaling sawdust, while someone beat him around the head with a mallet. On the other hand, he wasn't feeling nauseous any more.

He opened his eyes to report these interesting facts to someone, and found Sherlock sitting on a fake-leather armchair with a book in his hands. He didn't query why Sherlock was there; some kind of hormonal instinct was telling him he was just happy that he was. Sherlock wasn't reading his book; he was watching John wake up with a look of amusement on his face. Very slowly, a couple of pieces of information swam together in the fuzziness of John's brain.

"You're back then?" Sherlock asked.

"Why? Where did I go?"

Sherlock smiled sympathetically. "Nowhere. Sorry. You were just very deeply asleep very quickly. I thought it was better to leave you to sleep for a bit. The nurse left you a small gift there." He nodded at the bed tray.

John squinted at it for a while, so Sherlock stood up to retrieve the little pile of pills and a glass of water.

"Thank you," John muttered. He swallowed the pills gratefully. "Has Richard been already?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, I thought it was better to let you sleep."

"Well I'm awake now. Call them in."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You're clearly exhausted and you need to rest."

John slammed his glass down on the table. He saw Sherlock shrink back slightly and bite his lips.

"Oh don't look at me like that!" John snapped. "'I can't even tell John he's behaving like a dick because he might die!' I hate it, Sherlock, so stop it!"

John had, to his shame, had similar fits of pique during his time in hospital last time, and he was mildly annoyed that he'd got there so soon this time around. Sherlock had responded in every way that he could think of, apparently working through some mental list, starting from uttering 'there there' sounds, to shouting back, to leaving the room so that John could stew for a while. None of them had thus far seemed satisfactory to either of them.

Sherlock had new weapon in his arsenal this time though.

"I wish that bed was big enough for me to get in there with you," he said quietly.

It certainly surprised John out of his tantrum.

"I hate you being this miserable alone," Sherlock went on. "It's probably better that we're not both sick and in pain, but if I could at least be still close by to where you have to be still then that might help."

John found he was misting up slightly. He blinked quickly and held a hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock reached to take both hands and helped John get to sitting up position, whereupon he hugged him. John was still achey, snotty and hot, but he did feel better in Sherlock's arms.

Doctor Sprat walked into their little curtained off cubical.

"Oh, my apologies," he said. John and Sherlock de-hugged and looked at him expectantly. "I just wanted to report that I've had no luck with the broth as yet. The kitchen did send me something, and I was quite hopeful, but on examination, it turned out to be soup that had been passed thought a sieve. Worry not though; my quest goes on. Have you had medication?"

"Yes, just now actually," John said. "Maybe ten minutes ago."

"I forgot," Sherlock panicked, "I was supposed to tell the nurse so she could chart it."

"No matter," Doctor Sprat said. "I'll do it now."

He scribbled on the chart at the end of John's bed, nodded briefly and left them.

John grabbed a handful of tissues and noisily blew his nose. "I am sorry," he said.

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. There's absolutely no point in my lying around in bed feeling sorry for myself. Come on, help me up."

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere much. I'm going to put on my pyjamas, go and use the toilet, and I'll brush my teeth while I'm there. It'll make me feel slightly closer to human even if it won't make me feel well."

Sherlock, to his credit, did not ask whether John was sure he was up to that. He just helped him down from the bed and gathered pyjamas, which John pulled on. Sherlock followed him across the room.

"You really don't have to accompany me."

"Yes I do. If not, you might start veering off path to diagnose all the other people here. Someone has to keep you out of mischief."

John smiled and they walked slowly together to the toilet, where John had to give Sherlock a stern look so he didn't follow him in.

"Doesn't your doctor want to analyse anything that comes out of you?" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, so I can pee in a bottle in privacy, thank you. Though you've reminded me I've left my labels on my table. Go and get them, would you."

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, but did turn around to leave, and John took the opportunity to close and lock the door. He behaved well all by himself, and even unlocked the door when Sherlock's knocking became a little persistent.

"I have your stickers," Sherlock said peevishly.

"Thank you." John took them, affixed one to the bottle he'd just used, and added it to the sample tray.

"Don't they worry people might switch the labels?" Sherlock asked.

"I think the hospital rely on the fact that not many people want to steal other people's bodily fluids. Plus they're collected hourly. Come on, let's go for a walk."

"To where? You're not allowed to leave the ward.

"We'll go around the ward then. There must be some windows somewhere."

They plodded slowly around, walking past other rooms full of other patients. They walked past the little room that John had been in for several weeks.

"I wonder who's in there now," he said.

"Let's not find out," Sherlock replied, looking oddly tense.

"No."

They eventually found a little room with vending machines and soft chairs in it so they waited there for a while. Sherlock sat down, but John went to stand in front of the large, sunlit window for a while to bask.

"Doesn't it depress you sometimes, all that out there?" he said eventually.

"All of what?" Sherlock asked, getting up to join him.

"You're looking at your beloved London, enjoying the sunshine, aren't you? No, I'm thinking about all those people out there who are just stuck on the outside with no hope of getting in." Sherlock didn't answer but he frowned gently. "Think of those girls we saw yesterday," John said. "Dancing around poles, flirting, revealing themselves to men."

"They chose to be there."

"Did they? Or did they learn really early that all they're good for is doing as they're told and pleasing men. We pretend that there's career equality but you only have to look in the boardroom doors to know that there's not. Look at the proportions of cleaners who are women against those who are men. Or childcare workers. Traditionally the jobs that don't come with the biggest wages." He rested his forehead on the window glass and let it's coolness soothe him a bit. "I don't know. Maybe it is choice. Pretty poor choice though, when the only other job is minimum wage and that doesn't pay you enough to live. Sheila couldn't survive on her own on minimum wage, so she went there; how was that a choice?" He looked out onto the city and sighed. "At least all the girls at Kitten's were overage. At least they had the option to just dance and find a place that probably is a fraction more decent than the others. They're not allowed to step out of line though. I'll bet if a customer complains, it's the girl who has to take all the blame. And there are other girls out there too who don't even have the option to just dance, just out there and there, kids still, thirteen, fourteen years old, hooked on drink or drugs, or attacked daily by parents. Children who feel that this is their only way of surviving because they've been bloody ignored by the rest of society, and they've only ever been taught that their only value is in pleasing the men. People turn their heads away."

He was silent for a while.

"She wasn't like that though," Sherlock said. "The Woman. She was in the trade because she chose it. Because she knew it came with a form of power. For some people it is a clear choice."

John grunted and looked out some more. He couldn't see his house, but he could see the street one over from Baker Street. He wished he was home.

"I wish you wouldn't call her that," he said after a pause. "You need to learn to use her name."

Sherlock frowned at him in question.

"You, above every other person I know, treat men and women exactly the same," John said. "Mrs Hudson or Lestrade, Donovan or Anderson, Molly or me, you treat us all with the same level of contempt, not depending on which genitals we have, but how much you value us as individuals at that precise moment. Apart from Irene bloody Adler. You don't call Moriarty 'the Man', but for some reason Irene gets relegated to a moniker that breaks her down to a sex and nothing more. I don't like it."

"I had no idea it upset you," Sherlock said quietly.

"It doesn't upset me as much as it bothers me. I thought you of all people were above such things. You're bloody annoying almost all the time, but one thing you'll never do is reduce a person to their sex and nothing more."

There was another pause. Sherlock ran his small finger down the back of John's hand.

"I never desired her, Ms Adler, you know," he said.

John broke out of his daydream to look at him. "No. I know that. I think I wanted you to at the time, but I knew you didn't. I wondered, over Christmas, but I think I always knew that it wasn't like that."

"It wasn't."

John smiled and squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm just randomly depressed about the state of the world suddenly. I think I'm just really, really hungry now."

"Ah. I wondered if it was that or pain. I'd ruled out tiredness."

John smirked and sat down on one of the chairs.

"No, I'm sorry. It is just hunger." He sighed. "It does bother me though, how still after all these years, we still seem to project the message that in our society, a woman is not as valuable as a man. We, all of us, _society,_ we still manage to denigrate women as a sex until the individual beings stop being anything other than a convenient hole to stick a dick into. The fourteen year old crack-addict knows it, and if she doesn't, she'll soon meet someone who'll tell her. So does the boy who gets a girl drunk and then just takes her. He knows that there are almost no repercussions; she won't dare to talk, and she won't be taken seriously if she does. It's what he's due after all, for having the gift of being born with a penis. It's her fault for getting drunk. Sheila Pullman knows it at seventeen; she's known it so long that she thinks it's her only option. She might want it to be different and all girl power and that, but she knows it's not. It's all of our fault. I'm as bad as anyone else. You're obviously not, but neither of us do anything about the inequality. We both just coast by, and at least one of us has been known to take advantage."

"You weren't that bad," Sherlock said. "You didn't just want sex; you wanted companionship and a partner."

John smiled gently. "No. I don't think that's true really. I already had companionship and a partner. I wanted someone to be soft and comforting and who'd occasionally let me sleep with them, but who didn't need the consideration that a partner or companion did. I could catch a woman as easy as anything; I couldn't keep one though. Not as long as I was getting that wrong."

Sherlock came to sit opposite him.

"I'm sorry," John said again. "I really shouldn't be talking like this."

"No. Just how hungry are you?"

John snorted. "I'm very, very hungry."

"Yes. Because twenty minutes ago you did say that you shouldn't sit around feeling sorry for yourself."

"Yeah that's true." He wrinkled his nose. "Damn. I came out without any tissues, and all the guilt is making my nose run."

"Let's go back to your bed then. You go actually, I'll call Mrs Hudson and get her to…_ask_ her politely to make you some chicken broth. She can deliver it when she brings Richard in. Let's see if we can at least make a difference to one girl's life."

"Thank you," John said. "Are you sure you don't need to walk me back all the way to my bed?"

"No. It's about fifty metres. I can trust you to get that far by yourself."


	23. The Text

**I would like to express my sympathies to my American friends here. I'm so sorry that you're going through all of this again. Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter 23

John picked his book up again, looked at it briefly, flicked through the pages, wondering where he'd got to, and then he put it down again.

"Will they be here soon?" he asked.

"I have no further information since you asked me thirty seconds ago."

"I know. I'm sorry." He picked his book up, but put it down again so that he could blow his nose. "But when did they say they'd be here?" he asked through the tissue. "Did they say an hour? Or did they give you a time and you just work out it was an hour."

Sherlock put his own book down and looked steadily at John. "I know you're hungry, but there's nothing I can do about that. They will be here when they get here." He shook his head and went back to his book.

"I know. Sorry." John gazed around the cubical for a while. "You did specify broth, didn't you? You didn't accidentally say soup?" Sherlock gave him a long, cold stare. "Sorry," John said again.

All of a sudden he heard the sound of Mrs Hudson's voice; "well they must be in here somewhere…" and he nearly leapt from the bed in joy.

Sherlock was already up and at the curtains, and then there was Mrs Hudson looking cheerful, and Richard behind her, looking wary.

"Oh John," Mrs Hudson said, "you're looking a lot better than I expected! How are you?"

"I'm fine, how are you? OK? Did you bring my chicken broth?"

"There's a thermos in here." She handed him a carrier bag. "I wasn't sure if I was supposed to strain it, so I've brought the sieve and a mug."

"That's great thanks," John said, pulling the items out of the bag as though they were the most wondrous gifts in the world. He glanced at Richard. "Sorry, Richard, how are you? Did you need something?"

Sherlock boggled at him. "Yes! Of course he needs something! You whined and complained until I invited him in, remember? Or was that whole feminist spiel just so I'd get Mrs Hudson here with the broth? Because you could have just asked me to do that!"

John stared at him, failing to feel either guilty or embarrassed. He shrugged at Sherlock and glanced at Richard. "Do you mind if I eat while you and Sherlock chat." He was already unscrewing the top of the flask.

"No, that's fine," Richard muttered, trying to hide a smile.

Doctor Sprat put his head around the curtain and frowned. "Visitors are strictly limited to two per bed," he said.

John nodded. "It's fine though; Mrs Hudson is visiting me and Richard is visiting Sherlock. Look! Broth!" he poured some of the golden liquid into the mug, watching little jewels of carrot and onion carried in the stream.

"Only half the mug full," Doctor Sprat warned. "If you can stomach it, you can have another half in half an hour. That looks like an excellent broth. Was that you, dear lady? Or the young man?"

"Oh, I can't cook," Richard said.

"I usually add a little soy sauce," Mrs Hudson said. "I wasn't sure whether John could have it though, so I brought the bottle separately."

John instantly dived into the carrier bag again.

"You can have a little soy if you want," Doctor Sprat said. Even he was looking pleased in the face of John's obvious delight. "I came to tell you that thus far, you're monitoring perfectly normally for someone weakened with flu. I'd like to see how you manage the food though, before we make any rash decisions about discharging you."

John seemed oblivious to this as he dashed a little sauce into his mug, and took a tentative sip. "Oh now," he said, "that's very good."

"I'm so pleased," Mrs Hudson said.

"Seriously, this is nectar. This is manna from heaven." He drained his cup and looked longingly at it.

"Right, now wait for half an hour," Doctor Sprat said. "Can I take it you are in charge of the cooking?" he asked Mrs Hudson.

"Well I try, but the boys don't really let me do much." She shook her head sadly at them.

John glanced up. "Mrs Hudson, this is Clive Sprat. I haven't known him very long, but he's a very good doctor and an all-round good egg. Clive, this is my landla… this is my friend, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," she said.

"And you, a delight, and absolute delight. Now, perhaps if you're the person in the household with the common sense, you might be so kind as to look at a few dietary sheets I have, and give me your opinion if there's anything there that John here will complain about."

She smiled at him. "Anything to help."

Doctor Sprat smiled and offered her his arm. Mrs Hudson took it with a smile, and he led her away. John watched them leave with a smile, and then peered into his mug.

"Has it been half an hour yet?"

"It hasn't been three minutes yet," Sherlock replied, staring at Richard. "You have a text."

"Oh. Um. Yeah." Richard fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a fairly battered blackberry.

"They number wasn't recognised, I take it," Sherlock asked while Richard scrolled through to find his texts.

"No, but I know it was from her." He handed his phone to Sherlock.

"How?"

"It's what she calls me; 'Monkey-guts'. She's the only one who's ever called me that. It was what Dad called me too, and now her."

"No friends heard it in the past?"

"No. I don't think so, and not people who know about the situation now. Look I know it was from her."

Sherlock nodded and passed the phone to John who looked.

'_Hi, Monkey-guts. I'm OK. I can't contact you just now. Don't be scared. Love to Mum. X'_

"Well, that some good news at least," John said. "Look, I know you're really worried, but she does say she's OK."

"Yes, she says she's OK in one sentence out of five," Sherlock snapped. "In three others she's clearly asking for help."

"What?" Richard asked.

"'I can't contact you right now', indicates that she'd like to, but she's being restricted somehow. Note she doesn't ask you not to call her. She's not warning you off. I take it you've called the number?"

Richard nodded. "It's dead. I've tried eight times since; the first time it rang, but didn't get answered. All the other times it says that it's unobtainable."

"Poor Sheila has bought herself a spot of trouble in sending that text to you."

"Sherlock…" John said quietly.

"The next two sentences are equally troubling." Sherlock said, steamrolling over John. "'Don't be scared', indicates that that fear is forefront in her mind. 'Love to Mum', indicates she's thinking about the woman she's estranged from right now. Why would she do that? What is it that's specific to your mother that Sheila wants you to call to mind?" He glared at Richard.

Richard looked nervous, like a child struggling for an answer in front of the class. "I don't know. I don't think there's anything."

"Maybe she just wanted him to pass on her love," John said.

"No, that doesn't work. She could have texted her mother directly, or she could have sent as single text to both. What is it about your mother?" Sherlock asked again, narrowing his eyes.

Richard shuffled and shrugged and looked miserable.

"Has it been half an hour yet?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock broke of his thoughts to frown at John. "No, it has not. It's been seven minutes. Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm pouring myself some more broth."

"You're impossible."

"So says you."

Sherlock turned back to Richard. "I'll do my best to find her for you. Can you get me a list of her friends, places that she liked to go and so forth? If you can look at her Facebook profile for recent activity too, anything unusual or suspicious from the last few months, that would be great. I wouldn't expect you to guess her passwords, but if you do have any vague ideas, let me know."

"Genevieve," Richard said.

"What?"

"Genevieve is probably her password. There might be numbers too. I can give you her date of birth and our house number and stuff."

"Thank you; that would be helpful."

"Oh God, this soup is good," John said.

Sherlock frowned at him. "It's broth."

"Broth then, it's heavenly."

"I do wish you'd be precise when you talk. Take a leaf out of Richard's book. Learn to be clear and to focus on the important…."

"What?" John asked. Sherlock had drifted off and was staring at the corner of his bed.

John and Richard exchanged glances.

"Sherlock?" John said.

There was no answer.

"Huh," John said. "That's him gone for a bit then. If I had another cup of this soup, would you promise not to breathe a word to Doctor Sprat?"

Richard glanced at the motionless Sherlock. "Er, yes. I guess so."

John poured some more soup. Richard stood there, sparely, occasionally shuffling his feet or looking as though he should find something to say.

"Don't worry about it," John said. "Hospitals are deadly dull, as are sick people, so don't feel guilty about wanting to leave. You should head off now. Will you go back to the club?"

"No. I don't know, it all seems a bit pointless. The only people who've listen to me are you and the church lot, and both of you weren't going to go in anyway. Well, not for the usual reason. I'll go home to Mum. Do you think he might need something more?" He nodded at Sherlock.

"I don't know, and while he's like this, I have no way of finding out," John said. "We'll call you though. I'll make sure he remembers."

"Thank you." He sloped off.

John waited, bored, for a few minutes, and then he poured the last few mouthfuls of the broth into his mug and drank it. He was then bored with nothing to eat.

"Sherlock?" he called.

There was no response. He sighed and picked up his book again.

Eventually they heard Mrs Hudson coming back into the room discussing something that didn't sound like food. They entered the curtained cubicle smiling happily, Mrs Hudson clinging onto a sheet of paper.

"Well, I am more than happy to defer to your opinion of Gershwin," Doctor Sprat said. "You are clearly a connoisseur."

Mrs Hudson smiled and simpered slightly. "And I'm happy to agree with you on Purcell."

"How was the soup, John?" Doctor Sprat asked. "Would you like to try some more now?"

John looked at the empty flask. "Oh, I waited half an hour and ate some more."

Doctor Sprat looked at his watch. "I'm not entirely sure how that's possible. Despite your dishonest and impetuous nature, John, this delightful lady has negotiated on your behalf, and I am prepared to release you to her care providing…"

"Really?" Sherlock said, standing quickly and making everyone jump. "Are you absolutely sure that's safe? You wanted to observe him, remember?"

"I think it's quite safe providing…"

"That's enough for me," John said. "Where are my shoes?"

"You're still in your pyjamas!" Sherlock said.

"I don't care. Where are my shoes?"

"Gentlemen! _Please_," Doctor Sprat cut in. "John may go home _providing_ he entrusts dear Mrs Hudson with his diet, and under no circumstances leaves the house for the next three days."

"Done!" John said. "Where are my… Oo, now I'm dizzy." He leant back against the bed.

"I'm not sure you should be coming home," Sherlock said. "I'm not sure he should be coming home. What if he starts vomiting blood again?"

"I'd strongly suggest he didn't, but if he does, he'll just have to come back. He'll be fine as long as he doesn't strain himself, doesn't go wild with what he's eating, and someone else finds his shoes," Doctor Sprat soothed.

"See!" John said. "And you'll look after me, won't you?"

"I will," Mrs Hudson said.

"No, _I _will," Sherlock replied sternly. "Here are your shoes."

"Good," Doctor Sprat said. "I'll give you my personal number, young man, should you or _any other members of the household_ wish to call me." He handed Sherlock a card, and smiled at Mrs Hudson. "Now, John, if you'll kindly remove your entourage from my ward, I'd be extremely grateful."


	24. Violin

Chapter 24

The three of them quickly bundled all their possessions together and hurried, elated, from the ward. Strictly speaking, one of them was more anxious than elated, but one of the others had more than enough elation to spare. John would have felt very pleased with himself indeed if it weren't for the sneezing fit that he had just outside of the entrance, which left him so dizzy he needed to lean against the wall while Sherlock hailed a cab looking extremely annoyed by the situation. He held the door open for Mrs Hudson, and then helped John into it before getting in himself and slamming the door shut.

"I have flu," John said quietly to Sherlock as the cab slowly pulled away. "I'm not going to be completely cured in less than a day. It's not a problem. Don't worry."

"I've been hearing far too much 'not a problem' and 'don't worry' from you of late," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'll try to be more honest in future, but this really is no problem."

They were sharing the back seat with Mrs Hudson, so John found it quite convenient to snuggle against him and take his hand. As usual, Sherlock seemed calmer when he did so. It took a moment for John to notice that Mrs Hudson, on the other side of him, was trying not to beam with delight. He started untangling his fingers from Sherlock's, but then he thought better of it and held on. Mrs Hudson released her beam.

They were home in ten minutes, and within another five, John had been frog-marched to Sherlock's bedroom and ordered to strip.

"Really?" John said, raising a quirky eyebrow. "Now?"

"Yes, of course, you've been wearing those pyjamas for far too long."

"Oh." He sat down on the bed.

Sherlock frowned. "Really? You really think you'd be able to stand anything else?"

"I'd like to try," John said hopefully.

"I think you'd be lucky if you could manage a long slow kiss without passing out. Please, you need to rest now."

"I don't want to." John sighed. "I know, you're right and I should, but I'm so much happier just being here in this room with you than in that awful hospital. It's given me all sorts of ideas."

Sherlock's face flickered from confused to intrigued, and John gave a short nod of his head to beckon him onto the bed with him.

Sherlock very nearly gave in, but then became stern again. "No. I'll get your pyjamas."

He crossed in the doorway with Mrs Hudson who was bringing a glass of water and a banana to John. "It's not time for you medication yet, but Clive said you could have half a banana if you managed the journey home OK."

"Thank you. Really, thank you for looking after me."

"Yes." She looked hesitant, and then spoke in a low, careful voice. "Sherlock's trying his hardest too, you know. I think he'd find it a little easier if you learned to trust him a bit."

"I do! Completely!"

"Then why won't you tell him what you need?"

"It's not that I don't trust him. It's that…it's that I worry for him."

"I know. I'm sure that's true, but see it from his point of view. From his point of view, you've been…_something_ for less than two days, and you've spent most of that time lying to him about how you feel." She straightened up as Sherlock's footsteps became audible in the kitchen and smiled at him brightly as he came in. "Oh, you sorted pyjamas. That's saved me a trip. I'll leave you two alone for a while."

He frowned at her and handed the clothes to John. She hurried away.

"What are you lying to me about?" Sherlock asked.

John pulled his t-shirt off and smiled. "Oh, nothing much. Just the fact that I'm old and decrepit and frankly feel like shit."

"Well yes, you've got flu."

"Yes." By way of demonstration, John was hit by another coughing fit. He pulled tissues from the box on Sherlock's bed to blow his nose. He looked up to find Sherlock still looking at him, expectantly. "It's just that part of me is worried, possibly irrationally, possibly not, that you're going to suddenly notice that I'm this old, feeble, weakling, and you'll want to walk away. I don't want that, so as a precaution I'm perhaps not telling you if I'm ill quite as readily as I might." He pulled the clean t-shirt on, partly to cover his face.

Sherlock nodded when he emerged again. "Thank you for telling me."

"It's fine." John risked a smile. "I'm not saying I'm not hopelessly randy too though."

Sherlock smirked. "That's fine. I'm sure I can restrain myself." There was a twitch of his eyebrow. "I think we'll have to rely on the virus to keep control of you." He stepped towards the bed as if to sit down, but he hesitated and remained where he was. "I have to ask you a question."

"OK," John replied, trying not to feel nervous about Sherlock's manner, knowing it could herald something completely earth shattering or something as simple as an offer of tea.

"Do you think…" Sherlock started. "Is it possible, that following our time together in the hospital, not this time but the last, is it possible that you started seeing me as someone who can be soft and comforting and that's what drove you to see if you I could also be someone who might sometimes let you sleep with them?"

John rubbed his face. "I don't know. Yes. Maybe. I suppose that could explain it all on some level." He smiled quite sadly at Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock frowned this away. "Why?"

"Because it sounds so deeply unromantic when you think of it that way."

"No, it sounds logical. Logic beats romance any day of the week."

John smiled again, and now Sherlock sat down on the bed with him.

"The problem is," Sherlock said, "realistically I don't think I can be that caring over a sustained amount of time. I knew the things that needed to be done and I could do them, so I did. There were times when I was utterly blind as to what you might need, and I had to guess, and you know how I hate guessing. I got it wrong sometimes. I'm glad that those times seem to matter less to you. But I'm concerned that you're looking for someone soft and comforting, and that person isn't me."

"Yes," John nodded. "Yes, that is a problem." He smiled at Sherlock's slightly crestfallen face. "The thing is though, even though I know all of that, and even though I feel rougher than I've ever felt before, I still want to basically jump on you and pull you into the bed. So I think it's fairly safe to assume that wherever my feelings for you started, they're somewhere else entirely now. Plus, we still haven't the first idea where all of your sudden emotions and desires have come from."

"No. That's true."

"So unless you want to back away now, I suggest we just keep going for a while, while I'm secretly hoping that you're not going to come to your senses at some point."

"Yes." He nodded. "Yes, that sounds like a good idea."

"Good."

John stretched to try to kiss Sherlock, who backed away, frowning.

"No, you were told to rest. Kissing isn't rest. Besides, I don't want to get your flu."

John grinned. "You'd be forced to stay in bed with me if you did. And if you're going to get it, it will have happened by now."

Sherlock looked vaguely wary for a second, and then he tentatively leaned towards John to kiss him. It was a fairly calm kiss, not too pushy from either side but not something you could describe as brief either. Sherlock pulled away first and nodded.

"Yes. I still enjoy that. Even with you as disgusting as you currently are."

John grinned. "Come to bed with me then. We don't have to do anything strenuous." Then he leaned back and frowned. "No, actually don't. We still have Sheila to find and a whole heap of sex workers to protect. Well, you do."

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"No, I'm taking an afternoon off to be with you. No, don't look like that! Everyone else gets to take the occasional day of. I almost never want to, so I think I should be allowed now that I do. Sheila is as safe as can be expected. I certainly don't think she's in any immediate physical danger. Lestrade's got the websites under enough control, and I have reason to believe that there will be no new death tonight. Our best chance will be to catch him tomorrow, so let's just relax with each other for now." Sherlock had been moving his face closer and closer to John's throughout this speech, and now he was close enough to kiss him again.

John responded cheerfully, and he ran his hand around the small of Sherlock's back and down to his hip. Sherlock shuddered and sighed in response, and then kissed harder until he pulled again and shook his head.

"No, this is no good. I promised that I'd make you rest."

"I can rest and kiss! I can multitask!"

"No. I have an idea!" Sherlock launched himself from the bed and out of the room.

John sighed in a disappointed fashion and pulled his pyjama trousers off to replace them with the cleaner pair. He dragged himself properly into the bed and picked up the banana which he ate, thoughtfully.

Sherlock returned with his violin and he stopped short on seeing John with the banana in his mouth. He quickly turned away.

"Problem?" John asked through his mouthful.

"No. I'm fine. I'm going to play you to sleep."

John nodded. "Fair enough." He put the banana peel on the bedside table and settled himself down to watch and listen.

Sherlock's tune started calm and low. It wasn't one that John had heard before, though occasionally there would be a trill or a run that he thought he vaguely recognised, but largely he was just floating on the melody, content to be carried on its twists and turned. It did indeed start to lull him into a deep state of relaxation, but he didn't give up on wakefulness just yet.

"Oh God, you're incredibly sexy when you play that thing," he muttered.

This caused a missed note and something of a slip of the bow, and that, combined with the sound of his own voice woke him up fully.

"Really?" Sherlock asked.

John was surprised to see he was blushing deeply.

"Sorry," John said. "But yes."

"Nobody's ever said before."

"Oh. Well. They've missed a trick. Sorry; I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, that's fine. I thought you were asleep."

"I thought I was too."

Sherlock raised his violin to his chin again. The tune he picked up now was slightly different; faster and more vigorous. John watched, and found his eyes drying with his will to keep them open.

"It's your back," he said quietly so as to not interrupt the flow of the music. "The way the small of your back slopes up, and then your shoulders. Particularly the shoulder of your bow arm which looks so strong and firm…" Sherlock played a particularly strong and firm phrase here, "…and the shape of your left wrist as it curves into the narrow bit…"

"Fingerboard," Sherlock said very quietly.

"Yeah, that. And your fingers. Oh goodness those long, confident, dexterous fingers…"

Sherlock dropped his violin from his shoulder and put it carefully but quickly on his shelves, and then he strode across the room and up onto the bed to drop down straddling John and he kissed him savagely.

John's grinned through the kiss.


	25. John's touch

Chapter 25

There was a tentative knock on Sherlock's door.

"Come in," he murmured.

The door opened an inch.

"Are you decent?" Mrs Hudson whispered through the crack.

"Of course I'm decent." He was indeed decent. He was sitting on his bed reading by the light of his bedside lamp.

There was a pause.

"Is John decent?"

Sherlock looked at the snoring form next to him. He was well buried beneath the sheet and blanket.

"He's very decent," he said.

The door opened, and Mrs Hudson stepped in. "I wanted to see if he wanted more tea and to bring him his tablets and a patch. How long's he been asleep?"

"Since about six minutes after I got into bed with him." Sherlock smiled again. "Should we leave him to sleep do you think?"

"I should think so."

"Give me the patch at least. The vomiting has got to stop." He reached for the little packet and he deftly stuck it on to the top of John's arm. He removed the other in less than a second, and though John shuffled and snorted, the gentle, rattling snore started again. Sherlock smiled.

"Well done," Mrs Hudson whispered.

"I have experience with patches."

"Well, I'll go back downstairs then."

"No, wait." Sherlock put his book down and leapt off the bed. "I need to talk to you."

He followed her through to the kitchen.

"Shall I make tea?" Mrs Hudson asked. She turned and looked at his face and nodded. "I'll make tea."

"Thank you." Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to progress the conversation, so he sat down at the table and waited for Mrs Hudson to work it out.

She put a cup of coffee in front of him and sat down at the adjacent side.

"So, what was it about your new relationship with John that you wanted to talk about?"

Sherlock smiled. Mrs Hudson stopped him before he could speak.

"Be aware that I won't discuss anything…_sexual_ with you."

This threw him slightly, but he quickly decided that any uncertainties in that area could probably be worked through by experimenting with John.

"Mrs Hudson, you appear to know the rules…"

"What rules?"

"The rules of _this_. You tell me to show him respect, to not run off without him, and when I remember, he responds well. You tell him not to lie to me or withhold information, and I think he's trying, which makes me feel…better."

"Well it's all basic consideration and common sense, Sherlock."

Sherlock considered that. "Neither of which are qualities I have in abundance."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You'll be fine. You have the advantage that John knows you through and through already, and he still seems to want to give it a try."

"Yes." Sherlock said. He drank some coffee and allowed one of the many thoughts filter through to the front of his mind. "There was a strange moment yesterday when I told him that I might love him."

"That's nice. What did he say?"

"I ran away before he could respond. Later he said thank you, of course, but my concern is this; I told him I'd verify it when I could, but I don't have an accurate assessment tool. I have noted references in books and plays, but they're not helpful. Romeo and Juliette were insipid, foolish children. I've read a variety of books in the romance genre in the past few days, and they're all ridiculous."

"Which books are you reading?"

"Mills and Boone first."

"Well yes; they are ridiculous."

"I got them from your flat."

She pursed her lips. "Well I'm not trying to base a relationship on them."

"I've tried to find films too, but there isn't a single one that boasts romance that looks worthy of two hours of my time. Songs are better, because at least they're short, but they're so confused too. Some say they never want to leave the person they're in love with, which sounds familiar, but others talk about their lover driving them to distraction, which sounds familiar too, and others are frankly silly and seem to be marketed for teenage idiots."

"They probably are. They're a brief description of someone's feelings at one, small moment of time. You can't learn everything you need to know from songs."

"Then I'm stuck. If there is no specific model for a loving relationship, then how will I know if I'm in one."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You just have to base it on how you feel and trust blind luck."

"Well that's not fair." Sherlock frowned and leaned forward. "And another thing, I've understood the physical, chemical reaction for some time, though John has always claimed that this is lust, and not love…"

"He's right."

"Yes, and it confuses me, because while I appear to experience some of these things in relation to John, it's not constant."

"Well no. You can't want to bed each other every second of the day."

"This is what I thought, but it seems so… unpredictable. Sometimes I genuinely want to concentrate on my work, and then he's there, and though it's never mattered before it suddenly does, and I can't concentrate. Other times I…" Sherlock broke off.

Mrs Hudson smiled. "Well it sounds…."

"Shh." Sherlock hissed.

"What… Wait, is someone coming in?" She started to stand to check, but Sherlock held her wrist.

"It's Mycroft," he snarled.

They waited, and sure enough the faint footfalls became louder and Mycroft Holmes entered the kitchen.

"Good evening," he said.

"Mycroft, it is considered good manners to knock, and wait for an invitation to enter," Mrs Hudson said.

"I didn't like to cause a disturbance," he answered smoothly. "I suspected the residents would all be taking care of John. I do hope he's feeling a little better. I was surprised to find he'd been released from hospital so quickly with such troubling symptoms."

"Couldn't bribe the doctor enough to keep him out of my way?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah ha. You know I keep my distance from the medical professionals."

"That's your mistake," Sherlock said. He didn't hide his smug look behind his coffee cup quite as well as he had hoped. He wished he were standing so that he could invade Mycroft's space to give him a challenging look before sweeping away with his nose in the air. He felt that would have been quite effective – it would certainly annoy Mycroft – but he was currently seated and there was no way of making the gesture from here without it seeming forced. He wondered how to get Mycroft to his eye level without inviting him to sit down.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mycroft?" Mrs Hudson said. "If you're going to talk to Sherlock, you may as well sit down."

"Thank you." He slid onto a chair opposite Mrs Hudson's as she stood to make more tea. He smiled at Sherlock who attempted to be as emotionless as he could. "How is the case going?"

"Fine. Nearly finished."

"But not completely finished? I would rather have thought that you only needed three or four days on this one"

Sherlock bristled but didn't say anything.

"Of course, it will be more difficult for you to work alongside the John situation…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mrs Hudson said. "He's only got flu!"

Sherlock watched Mycroft carefully, wondering if he'd correct her misunderstanding.

"I wonder if I might speak to my brother alone?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm sure there's nothing you can't say in front of me," Mrs Hudson replied. She handed him a cup of tea and sat down again while Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft's face twitched into a sneer but he mastered it quickly and looked directly at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, remember this is a very dangerous game you are playing."

"No it's not," Mrs Hudson said. "It's neither a game, nor is it dangerous. To hear you talk about relationships, you'd think that in ninety per cent of cases one party ended up dead."

"Well your track record…" Mycroft stopped himself.

"My track record distorts the statistics as you well know," Mrs Hudson said. "We could suggest that based on the people in this room only a third of people are female. Or two thirds of people have some sort of genius, which would make you quite ordinary after all."

Mycroft sniffed sharply at her and turned to Sherlock again. "Sherlock, with the best will in the world, this is not something you're good at."

"Of course it's something he's good at," Mrs Hudson said. "Like everyone else, he just needs the right person."

Mycroft looked pained as he ignored her. "Remember what happened the last time you allowed yourself to become distracted by…"

"That was completely different!" Sherlock snapped.

He hated himself for reacting, and for his heart, which was suddenly beating fast in his chest. He caught his breath slightly to force himself to calm down. Then he was aware of John's footsteps padding down the corridor to them, and he was at once embarrassed about his brother, and alarmed about how John might react, and worried that John was up and walking again when he had promised complete and utter rest.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said cheerfully. "I thought I heard the sound of joy and good cheer about the house."

John's hand ran across Sherlock's shoulders and rested briefly at the top of his back, and it was all Sherlock could do to prevent himself closing his eyes and shuddering.

Thoughts of John's touch rushed through his mind. He had never noticed the lack of it until it was so noticeably there. John didn't touch him before. He might, if it was obviously necessary; he was not above shoving Sherlock into the house, or out of danger, or into bed if he'd exhausted all other options to get him to move. But generally he was the closest master of personal space than any person Sherlock knew. He'd stand close, but he'd steady himself on the back of a chair rather than a shoulder. He'd guide with a gesture rather than a nudge. He'd command with his voice rather than his force. Sherlock was the one who would grab and pull and push, largely because he was too impatient to ask or suggest.

Among the other things that had changed between them lately was that John was suddenly more tactile. The holding of hands, the brush of the shoulder, things that ran in parallel to their sexual relationship, things that Sherlock found he craved even more than the escapades of their naked flesh.

Sherlock knew that the touch on his back did many things. It marked Sherlock, clearly and obviously in front of Mycroft. It reminded Sherlock that John favoured him above anyone else. There was the relief of his firm, calm fingers, which had remained strong while the rest of John's strength had seeped slowly away, giving a hint of what he had been, and of what he would be again. It also felt hot through his shirt, and he remembered that John was late to take his medication again.

John's hand dragged up to Sherlock's left shoulder and the touch lightened as John started to turn to the kettle. Sherlock's right hand quickly leapt up to meet John's and he pressed it firmly to his shoulder. John stopped and looked at him in question.

"Don't forget your medication," Sherlock said quietly.

"OK," John said.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand gently and turned back to Mycroft. "Would you like to stay for dinner with us? I believe we're going to have boiled rice, with possibly a banana for desert. John and I would love you to stay."

He was aware, in the corner of his eye that John was responding with a mild smirk, and was not confused or rebelling against the invitation. He felt things become a little more certain for him as he watched Mycroft fight against his discomfort.

Mycroft rallied. "Perhaps another time. I must get on now, if you will excuse me."

Sherlock didn't stand as Mycroft left. When the front door finally closed he did release John's hand, and John and Mrs Hudson exchanged humoured sighs.

"Oh that man!" Mrs Hudson said, getting up and gathering the teacups.

"He's gone for now," John said. "I'm sure he'll return. Perhaps he'll even come for dinner one day. I have to say I'm pleased he declined this evening though." He filled a glass of water and grabbed a box full of paracetamol.

"Do you want food now, John?" Mrs Hudson asked. "I'm sure I can run to something a little more adventurous than rice and banana."

"Thank you. Something small would be nice, if it's not any trouble. I'm happy just to make toast though."

"No, you're not, and I said I'd take care of the cooking and I mean to. You'll eat too, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded at her, and she left to go downstairs. John sat down in the chair she'd vacated and dutifully swallowed his pills. He looked at Sherlock.

"You OK?"

"Mm? Yes, of course." Sherlock assessed John. He was still very pale and quite gaunt, and despite the amount of sleep he was getting, the bags under his eyes were large and saggy, and there was a redness to him that was echoed in the area under his nose. He was also in need of a shave, and a haircut to get him back to the military neatness that he favoured. His mouth was still set and firm though, and there was a glint in his eye that spoke of humour and mischief, and Sherlock found himself being drawn towards him. His intention had been to simply examine John's skin slightly more closely, paying particular attention to texture, and perhaps taste. John moved though, and they kissed briefly instead. Sherlock made a mental note to continue the examination of John at a later date.

"I love you," he said.

John looked surprised. "You're certain now?"

"No. I'm aware that there hasn't been time to validate the emotion, and that worries me…"

"It doesn't worry me."

"… I can't think of any other reasonable explanation though."

"Maybe you have rabies."

Sherlock laughed, and he noticed how light John could make him feel. He kissed him again.

"You need to go back to bed now," he said through his teeth.

"Do I?" John muttered back. "Actually, I do seem to remember we were in the middle of something."

"Yes." Sherlock took another kiss. "Then you fell asleep."

John sniggered. "I'm sorry. It was just the flu."

"Mm. I would be offended, but I'd much rather work on getting you back to bed now."

"I know," John finally pulled away from him. "I promised three days."

"Oh, what we could do in three days."

"I could sleep a lot, and you could try not to get flu."

It was only as he was pushing John back towards the bedroom that Sherlock realised that John had never claimed to love him too. It surprised him that this didn't concern or confuse him at all.


	26. Brian

Chapter 26

John woke up being stroked. Not invasively; just a Sherlock finger repetitively running along a two inch area on his lower arm while the Sherlock arm was draped over him. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was stroking him because he'd had a restless night, or whether it was because Sherlock needed a comfort item of his own. It didn't matter. He lay still, enjoying the feeling.

"You're awake now," Sherlock murmured into his shoulder.

"I am."

"You're not as hot as before."

"No. I don't feel as old or achy either."

"That's good."

There was silence and more stroking until John felt that he deserved a slightly more active role. He wriggled and turned over. Sherlock made a feeble attempt to hold him still, but through a series of giggles, nibbles and tickles John finally manoeuvred himself over and faced Sherlock. Their noses were almost touching. John slid his hands around Sherlock until his fingertips were just brushing underneath the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama trousers.

"Good morning," John said.

"Good morning. I have a question for you."

John glanced at the clock. "We have approximately twenty seven minutes before Mrs Hudson comes up to call us for breakfast, so with that in mind, how important is this question?"

"Very important, but you're welcome to answer quickly."

"OK, let's have it."

"Do you often tell someone that you love them?"

John's hand, which was gently exploring the very top of Sherlock's right buttock by now, stopped so that John could concentrate. "No. I think, on average I don't."

"Why not?"

John's hand started its investigation again and was joined by a second hand to explore a second buttock. "I think, probably for two reasons. One, and probably the most realistic reason, is that I haven't been in love with someone that often before, and even when I think I am, I'm not often certain of it. The second reason, and this is more idealistic, is that I sort of feel if someone needs telling, I mean, if I haven't been loving enough that they'd just know anyway, then I'm doing a pretty poor job of being in love."

Sherlock breathed in and nodded slowly. "That explains a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"I'm not nearly so well versed in loving behaviour as you, which explains my need to make statements. Otherwise you might not notice. Also, I don't seem to require similar statements from you. I find it easier to be certain that you are in love with me than I do to accept that I'm in love with you."

John grinned. "I'm assuming you didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Sherlock replayed his statement in his head, his eyes moving across John's face as if he were reading the words from it. He got to the questionable phrase and startled.

"Well obviously I meant it in relation to my ability to love; not in relation to your value."

"Yes. Obviously." John kissed Sherlock. "You see, you don't need to explain as much as you think to me. Now, we have twenty four minutes left. What do you think we should do with that time?"

"I have a follow up question," Sherlock said.

"OK, well, do you mind if I only pay half attention to it, while half of my attention is fixed on your bum?"

"Yes, that is acceptable," he shifted slightly to allow John greater access. "You say you sometimes think you're in love, but you're not certain. How do you become certain?"

"Not sure." He nuzzled into Sherlock, and started kissing along Sherlock's shoulder towards his neck.

Sherlock shuddered, but he was not to be deterred.

"No, wait, that can't be…" He sighed and moved John's hands from his bottom, and pulled away from his kisses. "How do you live your life in a constant state of not knowing?"

"You get used to it." John tried to start the kissing again, but Sherlock held him away.

"Then you might never know if you love me?"

John frowned. "No, that's easy. I've loved you for a long time. You're extremely important to me, and a big part of my life, you always have been, even before all of this. Even when you've behaved in ways I don't like, it's the behaviour I don't like, not you. You're… you. You I like. So I've got all of that, and now I also want to be physically close to you, and on top of that, I want to have sex with you quite a lot. I'm not an expert, but if all of that together doesn't constitute being in love with you, then I have no idea what would."

Sherlock considered this and nodded. "Fair enough. As you were."

"Where was I?"

"You know exactly where you were."

"I might need reminding."

Sherlock placed his hands over John's buttocks and gently squeezed. "Does that help?"

John grinned. "Oh yes, it does."

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Sherlock finally left the bed to go to the shower. He lazed where he was, refusing to look at the clock. Over the sound of the water running he could hear Mrs Hudson bustling around the kitchen. He wondered how long she'd been there, and whether this meant that she'd been able to hear some of the sounds that must have been coming from the bedroom. Mostly from Sherlock. He smiled, remembering.

He wondered about his answer to Sherlock too. Whether it would have been easier to say; 'I know I'm in love with you, because I feel like I'm in love with you' or not. Probably not, on reflection. Sherlock would simply have asked precisely what that feeling felt like, and would have been concerned that most of the physical symptoms could be explained by an unexpected flood of hormones, or an inner ear infection. He could understand Sherlock's confusion though, and his need to test and examine himself. He hoped that Sherlock would stay with him after the novelty had worn off.

There was a warm, comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being old, old men together.

Then there was just hunger, so he pushed himself up and followed Sherlock into the bathroom.

"Will you be much longer?" he asked putting his head around the shower curtain.

Sherlock was standing, toned and tall, body glistening, with water pouring off him.

"What?" Sherlock said, shaking soapsuds from his eyes.

"Er…" John said.

Sherlock grinned. "I'll only be a minute."

"No, you take your time. I'll wait just here."

Sherlock grinned again, but didn't actually take long to rinse himself. He stepped out of the water stream and gestured for John to get in. John didn't. He first held a towel up for Sherlock to get into. Sherlock stepped out of the shower and into the towel, largely ignoring it to wrap his soaking wet arms around John who laughed and squirmed and pulled away.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Go and shower then, see if I care."

John grinned and got into the shower. By the time he finished, Sherlock was gone, but he could hear him chatting to Mrs Hudson. He pulled his bathrobe on and went to join them.

"Here you go, John," Mrs Hudson said. "Grated apple for you, and a camomile tea."

John looked at the offerings sadly. "Are you absolutely sure I can't have more than that?"

"Start with that," Mrs Hudson said. "You can have another snack at ten. Well, it would have been ten if my usual timing had been in place, but I didn't expect you to sleep so long." She raised her eyebrows at him.

"No. Well, I feel much better," he said.

"Yes."

Sherlock sniggered, and John grinned.

"Now obviously, you two can get up to whatever you please in your own flat," Mrs Hudson said. "But John _is_ supposed to be resting." She gave Sherlock a stern look, and he sniggered again. "What about you, Sherlock? What are you intending to do with your time while John is here resting, _alone_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought I might go to church."

John choked on his tea and spluttered for a while. "What, really? You?"

"I doubt I'll burst into flames on walking through the door. It's just a building like any other, with people like any others. Even the holy water could be easily identified as two hydrogen atoms combined with one of oxygen."

"Can I come?" John asked.

"No you cannot!" Mrs Hudson snapped. "You, John, can either return to bed, or be made comfortable on the sofa. You may absolutely not go to church."

"You're the antithesis of my mother," John remarked. "When we got ill, throughout the general panic and flapping, we'd be frogmarched to church to pray for healing."

"You may not go to church," Mrs Hudson repeated.

"It's fine," Sherlock said. "I doubt you'll miss much from staying here. I'll bring you back something nice." He grinned a wicked grin and leapt up to go and dress.

John seethed and tried to pick at his apple in protest, but was too hungry and ended up cramming it in, and licking the plate afterwards. He put it down to find Mrs Hudson beaming at him.

"You really are feeling better!" she said.

"I think that the flu thing was a massive overstatement," John said. "I suspect what I've got is a particularly bad cold, with a bit of throwing up mixed in with it. I really should be allowed to go with Sherlock."

"Stay here and get well," she said, patting him gently on the shoulder. "I will get you something else to eat in just a little while, but I think Clive is right; I think we should give your stomach a proper rest."

"I suppose. Clive does seem to be a very learned man. Really into his music, and he'd probably enjoy sharing an opera with someone. I mention in passing."

"Later. If I start gallivanting around the town, who will stay here to look after you?"

John smiled at her and finished his tea. Sherlock, fully dressed, walked past them both to gather his coat from the living room, and then he dashed down the stairs. John listened to the front door close behind him.

"It's interesting to be in a relationship that's got so quickly to orgasms all round, but hasn't yet reached 'goodbye, I'll see you later.'"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "To be fair, you couldn't expect him to change that much."

"Wouldn't want him to," John returned.

"Good. Now go back to bed."

John defiantly dressed fully, and insisted sitting at his computer in the living room while quietly watching the news. There were no references to any sex-worker murders anywhere. He had a quick look online too, and other than the suicide of student Sofia Pennington, there were no references to the case at all. He was impressed at what a good job Lestrade had done at suppressing the news. Particularly given that several large websites were now involved.

He sent a quick text to see if there were any new developments, and after half an hour got the response 'sorry, lunch with Molly. Nothing new.' John thought it was suspiciously early for a lunch date.

He lazed around the flat getting increasingly bored until he finally heard the sound of the door opening, and Sherlock's voice chatting happily to someone. He frowned and stood up.

Sherlock appeared with Brian from St Agnes soup kitchen trailing him. He looked at John.

"John, please, I don't want you to get upset…"

"What's going on?" John asked.

"You remember Brian, don't you?"

"Yes, of course." He held his hand out to be shaken again, and looked at Sherlock.

"Look, John, we both know that what's been happening to you of late isn't right. We said that, we said that at the start, even when… even when our relationship was just an idea. We know that it isn't right for you. We know that really, deep down, this sudden change in you isn't something you're comfortable with."

John bit his lip, and shook his head.

"I wanted Brian here to come and talk to you. I wanted him to… I wanted him to talk to you." Sherlock got close to John and gently touched his wrist. "I want him to get through to you where perhaps I can't. This isn't right, John. You know it."

John closed his eyes and held his breath. The scenes of that morning in bed ran through his head, and other times with Sherlock looking at him with such desire, and he desperately fought the panic that he was feeling.

Sherlock moved away from him. "Look, you two talk out here, OK? I'm going to hunt out those Vatican cameos that I picked up in Rome. I thought Brian here might want to see them."

John listened to Sherlock's footfalls leave the room as the relief flooded through him. He knew that Sherlock clearly wanted him to do something here, and he spent a few moments fighting the desire to leap around the room.

"John? Are you OK there, John?" Brian asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John said heavily. "Just a bit… well, you know."

"John, why don't you sit down with me here." He sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to him. "Sherlock has told me you've always had a close relationship with the scriptures. Don't you think it would be a good idea to examine that?"

John did not. He thought that if Sherlock wanted him to playact a role, he'd be better off suggesting something that didn't require a good working knowledge of the Bible. He sat down anyway.

"Look, I know what you're going to say," John said, "but I've always, _always_ believed in a loving God. Jesus preached love and acceptance throughout the gospels. He did."

"But we can look at what Jesus declined to discuss," Brian said reasonably. "He could alter the contemporary thinking about loving other races and religions, about unclean foods, about working to at least feed yourself on the Sabbath. But he chose not to discuss homosexuality at all. What can we do with that except assume that Jesus agreed with the old testament teaching, and the scriptures there are very clear. God does not approve of same sex relationship. You must see that as true."

John wanted to retort that the God he believed in would definitely approve of his overwhelming love for the man who came home and announced that he'd brought a murderer back for him to play with. He managed to keep this to himself though.

He thought hard. There was clearly something here that Sherlock wanted him to do, and it probably wasn't to argue for gay rights with the man from St Agnes's soup kitchen.

He closed his eyes and thought. There must be a connection between Brian and the murdered sex workers. How he would get him to admit this was beyond him though. Sherlock wouldn't leave him alone if he were able to make a direct accusation either. So what else? What could John do here that Sherlock couldn't? What needed to be done other than catch the killer?

He was vaguely aware that Sherlock was listening to him from the kitchen, though he'd moved as silently as a ghost, and Brian probably wasn't aware yet.

He thought of the case from beginning to end, cutting out the parts where he'd been ill. The creaky old building where the student was murdered. The second poisoned girl from the website. The bloodbath at the third. And Kitten's too. The freezing boy stood outside, desperately looking for his sister, unaware as yet of the darkness that was creeping through her world…

He opened his eyes.

"I just… I just…" he let himself stammer and swallowed to control himself. "I know, or I think I know…" He took a slow breath. "I don't know. I don't know anything any more. Sherlock's right; I wasn't like this a few weeks ago. I would never feel this way about a man. And not just because I'm straight, but because it's…" he swallowed again and covered his face with his hands. "God knows what my mum would think!" he whispered. He held his breath for a while, finally releasing it with a gulp that sounded sufficiently like a sob.

He felt a dry hand pat his back, and Brian shifted closer to him.

"It's OK, John. It'll be OK."

John shook his head desperately. "It's not though. I don't even know what to think any more!"

"Sherlock tells me he's your friend. He says he always has been, and even after this, he'll accept your friendship."

"But how? How can I stop wanting him? I want him so badly, and it's so wrong! I know it is!"

"Do you think you could put your faith in God again, John? Do you think you could trust in the Lord to walk you through this pitiful place?"

John coughed and covered his face again. When he was a little more under control he wiped his eyes again, wishing he could make his tear ducts leak on demand like Sherlock could.

"I don't know," he muttered. "I'm not sure I could without help. I'm not sure."

"We can make sure you get the help you need."

John bit his lips and nodded. "I need to leave. I need to get out of this flat now." He looked around desperately. "I think being caged in here with him makes everything worse. If I could just get out without him for a while, I'd feel more normal again! Could you… sorry, I know you must be pushed for time. I'm sorry. And thank you for, well…"

"John, would you like to come away with me for a while? I know a place where you'll be given the time and space you need to pray if you want it."

John nodded. "Thank you, yes." He wiped his face and found he'd somehow made his eyes water a little. "Do I need anything?"

"No," Brian said soothingly. "The Lord will provide."


	27. Chapter 27

**I am sorry; I keep saying I'm nearly done, and then needing several more chapters to resolve storylines. I really do hope it won't go more than 30! I hope to have the next up this evening at some point. Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter 27

John followed Brian along the road towards the underground. He remained meek and quiet, trying not to look behind to check that Sherlock was following them. He couldn't see him, but somehow had a vague sense that he was there somewhere. He wondered if this was entirely down to his brain playing tricks on him. He got the distinct impression that Brian was worried that Sherlock was there too, as he tried to hurry John along.

They descended the steps at Baker Street station, and Brian shepherded John towards the northbound platform of the metropolitan line. He stood on the platform trying to look glum and confused while feeling fairly excited.

He wished he'd had more breakfast.

He wondered, with quite a jolt of alarm, what Mrs Hudson would do to Sherlock when she discovered that he'd let John out of the house. Alone. Possibly to go to a murderer's house.

"Are you all right, John?" Brian asked him.

"What? Oh, yes, fine." He remembered his role. "Well, obviously I'm troubled… Actually, I haven't been well of late, and I don't think I've eaten enough recently."

"The Lord will sustain you."

"Will he? That's good then."

Brian looked at him shrewdly, as though he suddenly doubted John's remorse.

"Sorry," John said. "I'm nervous. I'm just… I can't stop thinking. I miss Sherlock. I miss him so badly, and I want to run back there, right now." He stopped as several people pushed past him. "It's just, are you sure?" he asked Brian, searchingly. "Are you sure that it isn't right? It feels right?"

"No, John," Brian said sadly. "You know it isn't really, deep down. Even Sherlock understands that, and he doesn't even have a God telling him so. You do. Listen to that voice. Trust in Him."

John looked as shyly as he could manage. "I think I want to trust you," he said.

Brian beamed at him. "I hope to repay your faith. I have high hopes for you, John. High hopes."

John smiled, aiming for 'timid' but slightly concerned he was hitting 'deranged'.

The train pulled into the station, and they got on it together. They found two seats together, and John fought the urge to turn to check that there was a lanky, well-coated figure running onto another carriage. He decided to use every ounce of his faith to believe that there was.

"John, I am involved in many aspects of the church, as you know. Along with helping at St Agnes's soup kitchen, I'm involved in various missionary works."

"Are we going to the church now?" John asked. "St Agnes's?"

"Alas no. It so happens that God has sent me a challenge in the form of Father David. We talk regularly, and I still hope that he will begin to understand my value to him. At the moment, we're at something of an impasse. I help in the kitchen, and I attend his services of course, but he prefers me not to preach for myself anymore."

"Aren't there other churches? It seems wrong that you're not allowed to use the voice that God gave you."

"That's right, I agree, I agree completely. However, I'm beginning to see now that perhaps working alongside the more established churches is the right way for me. People who feel that they're not getting all they would like from wherever they are. People who don't have a church at all, but who still have that voice inside them. Sherlock told me you pray regularly."

"Did he? I mean, well, yes, I do."

"But you haven't thought of attending a church."

"No."

"So you're looking for a guide."

"Yes. I suppose I am." He thought of Sherlock.

"And I'm looking for someone strong. Someone who can help me with my work."

"Me?"

"Yes." Brian smiled at him. "I think you have many, many admirable qualities. Plus, you chose to heal people. Perhaps you could see this as an extension of that. This time, you'll be healing people's souls. It is as important, don't you think, as saving their bodies?"

No, he didn't. "Yes, I do."

Brian smiled. "Jolly good. There are a number of us, in my house, and I'd love for you to talk to them. I think they'll be so pleased that you've come to join us."

John nodded. He looked at the floor. "Do you think they'll be able to help me too?"

"Of course, my son. We all help each other. You have such strength in you though. You're special, John. I hope you'll be able to help me with the others."

John nodded.

"Of course we're all equal," Brian went on, "but some of us are much more in the role of leaders."

"Right. Good. That sounds…" He took a moment to discount some of his immediate responses. "I just hope I'm worthy of you," he said eventually.

They were quiet after that, for which John was grateful, and they stayed where they were until the train reached Northwood Hills, when Brian got up and gestured to John to follow him. John felt mildly nervous, knowing that getting off the train at this half deserted station would be the most dangerous point for Sherlock. He walked quietly next to Brian and didn't look back. Brian happily led him out onto the street and walked him along several streets and around several corners until they eventually came to a halt in front of a large, old Victorian house. It was set back away from the road in a poorly tended garden and behind a high wall and large iron gate. It looked dull and derelict against the rest of the millionaires mansions that lined the street.

"Here we are then," Brian said. "Welcome to my ancestral home."

John nodded. "It's lovely," he said. "I'd feel safe in there."

He looked up at the tops of the walls. He could just see the jagged glass set into the top of it. Less obvious than barbed wire, and easier for a skilful person to negotiate. The iron gates towered eight foot high. The only horizontal supports for someone to use as a foothold were a foot from the bottom and six inches from the top. He could see that the old tree inside the garden had had its roadside branches cut right back. Sherlock could get into the garden easily, he thought. There were even various statues looking sinister an eerie which a person might hide behind. Getting people out might be more of an issue though.

Brian fumbled with the old padlock on the gate, eventually getting it open and letting John in. He locked it again while John looked around the garden. The walls were high all the way around, and those to both the east and west joined other people's gardens. The original walls had been topped with a higher level. The house was old, but the large front door looked sturdy, and John counted four locks; one original and three modern. There were bars across the front windows, though they were only singly paned and could be smashed. There were curtains pulled across both sides. An escape that way was possible, but would result in lacerations, and would depend on the escapees being coordinated and fast.

Brian opened the door and stood waiting for John to walk in in front of him. John smiled at him and walked in.

There were two people at the door already, both female, dressed alike in matching blue robes tied at the middle with a thin cord. They were smiling. Three more people rushed to meet them too, a man and a woman, and a girl of about twelve.

"Everybody, I have brought a new friend. John needs help and guidance."

John was instantly surrounded, and the women hugged him while the man leaned over and patted his shoulder. Only the child stood aloof, chewing one of her long braids.

"Welcome, John!" was spoken often, and John thanked everyone politely. The women felt thin through their clothing, and the man's handshake was not firm. None of them were wearing shoes.

"Is Matthew well?" Brian asked one of the women.

"He seems very well today. He was only a little anxious that you were delayed coming home."

"I'll go and see him now." He turned to John. "John, I must ask that you abandon some of your worldly possessions now. Please take off your shoes, and let me have your phone and wallet."

"I'd rather not," John said.

"It's normal to feel concerned," one of the women said, "but don't worry. You'll get everything back when you're ready to leave, but it's essential that in here you're committed entirely to being here."

John hesitated, but then nodded. He pulled off his shoes, and took out his wallet and phone. He looked at them, but then held them out. He noted that Brian took them himself, and didn't allow any of the others to put them away. He gathered them under his arm.

"Sarah, why don't you take John to the kitchen for something to eat. I'll take these things to Matthew."

Sarah took hold of John's hand and led him along the corridor. John glanced back to see Brian unlocking the door to the right of the front door, but he was pulled down a short flight of steps and into the kitchen before he could see inside.

The kitchen was large, and there was a huge oak table in the middle of it with chairs all around. John was gently pushed down into one of them.

"Look who we have," Sarah told the two girls who were sitting at the other side of the table, they looked up impassively and their eyes flickered over him.

The younger of the two was fourteen or fifteen, and had the same long blonde hair as the little one. They could easily be sisters. The older one was interesting. She had Richard's dark brown eyes and a jaded, exhausted look. She was pale and thin lipped, and her eyes were in dark hollows. John was fairly certain that the pregnancy diagnosis was right too.

He nodded at her. "Hello," he said.

"Sheila is being silent at this time," the man said.

John wasn't sure if this was by instruction or by choice. Sheila kept her eyes fixed on him, so he smiled gently again.

"Would you like food, John?" one of the other women asked. "We have water and bread for weary travellers."

"That sounds lovely, thanks." His eyes tracked her across the kitchen. She pulled a breadknife from a drawer and used it to cut a slice from the loaf. He could see another kitchen knife, neither long nor sharp on the draining board next to the sink. The chairs were old and well made. The kitchen door was bolted and locked, and he assumed that the keys were on the large key ring that Brian had. The window was breakable, though there were bars across here too. The garden beyond was relatively small for the size of the house, and the wall along the back was slightly lower than the one out of the front. He made a note to survey that side of the building from upstairs when he could.

He smiled again as the woman handed him dry bread and water. "There will be more to eat later, but this is our Sunday, and so our fast day," she said.

But not appropriate for a pregnant woman or a child, he thought. "Thank you."

Sarah and the man sat down with him. "Why are you here, John," Sarah asked. "For what reason has the Lord guided you here?"

John swallowed his mouthful. "I fell in love," he said. "It was someone I shouldn't have fallen in love with. It was wrong."

"Was she married?" the man asked, sympathetically.

"No, not quite. He was my best friend," John let his voice choke up and his head drop.

There was silence at the table for a moment, and then the man's hand covered John's. "The Lord will forgive. The Lord is forgiving."

John nodded sorrowfully. He heard someone coming into the kitchen, and looked up to see Brian.

"I see you have been made comfortable," he said. "In future, you will fast with us on a Sunday." He looked around the room and his eyes fell on Sheila. "Are you feeling better now, child?"

Sheila nodded while she stared at the table.

"Poor Sheila has been cursed with nausea. She's praying for strength and calm."

"I hope it works for you," John said. He swiped the remains of his bread into his hand to give it to her when he could. He shoved it into his pocket as he stood up.

"Good news , John," Brian said, dismissing Sheila. "Matthew would like to see you now."

This caused a small gasp from one woman, while the rest of the group looked delighted.

"Indeed, John is very blessed," Brian said. "Come with me, John."

John stood and followed him back along the corridor to the locked door on the right. Brian unlocked it, and gestured that John should go in. He went in alone, and was unsurprised to hear the door lock behind him. He made a very quick prayer that Sherlock knew what he was doing, and he looked around.

This room seemed more opulent than the rest of the house so far. There floor was carpeted, and the walls were hung with pictures, usually or religious figures, but some were of mountains and forests. There was a bed at the furthest end, which had piles of bedding, and it was covered with teddy bears and soft toys. There were desks and tables, one of which held a computer. There were a neat row of mobile phones, including John's, by the side of it. In the middle of this, sitting on a tall backed chair was a young man. John was relatively certain he was closely related to Brian. He was clean shaven, thin and had a vaguely vacant look in his eyes. He was watching John as he looked around the room. There was a large cushion on the floor in front of him.

"Hello," John said quietly.

The man cocked his head to the side to consider John some more.

"Are you Matthew?" John asked. There was no reply. "I'm John," he said.

Matthew nodded and sat up straight. "I am the risen Lord," he said.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

John stared, then he thought that this might not be the safest reaction. Then he wondered what the safest reaction might be. He quickly knelt down on the cushion at Matthew's feet.

"You don't believe me," Matthew said.

No, thought John. A lie wouldn't do though. "I struggle with my faith," he said quickly. "I want to be stronger."

"My father says you're very strong. He says you might help us."

John sat back on his heels so that he could see Matthew's face. Matthew was staring at him intensely. The look of hatred and jealousy in his face was quite startling.

"I think that you don't need help," John said. "You have strength, you and your father together. You don't need me. Though if there's anything I can do, I would like to. I need your help too."

Matthew shifted in his chair, and put one pale, white foot across his knee. Matthew's toenails were long, and the soles of his feet were soft.

"Why should I help you?" Matthew asked.

"There's no reason," John replied.

"But you say you want to help me?"

"Yes," John said slowly. "I want to help."

Matthew nodded. "I'm tired now. I don't know why my father brought you to me. Perhaps time will tell, perhaps not."

"He goes outside, doesn't he?" John asked. "He's preparing the world for you, isn't he? Perhaps I could help him with that work."

"The world is a terrible and dark place," Matthew agreed. "Perhaps it is too much for him. He's feeble and weak."

"Perhaps," John said. "I'll leave you alone; you should rest. Are you fasting today?"

"I have no need for Earthly food."

"Good then." John got up and went back to the door.

"John!" Matthew called. He was standing now and looked frail and short and weak. There was such frightening savagery in his eyes though. "I have no need for you here." He spat. "I don't like you and I don't trust you. My father says you're filthy. I think you'll never be clean."

John thought quickly. "Maybe I can be if you'll help me."

Matthew sneered at him. "Get out now."

John knocked on the door and was relieved to hear the sound of the lock opening. He nipped through the door as quickly as he was able. He found Brian waiting expectantly for him.

"I don't think he liked me much," John said.

Brian looked fretful. "It sometimes takes him a while to see the value in people. I'll pray with him later."

"Thank you." John could feel himself sagging by now. "I wonder, is there a place where I might lay down? I really am very tired, and I haven't been well."

Brian nodded. "Of course. This is what the Sabbath day is for, of course."

He led John up two staircases and up to a small room that must have been part of the old servants' quarters. There was a single bed there, made with thin, scratchy looking sheets. He was grateful for it nonetheless, and even more grateful that this particular room faced the back of the house. As soon as Brian left him alone, he got up to examine the window and the garden below. As he suspected, the garden was quite small, and the wall at the end seemed to lead into some sort of access lane. This was clearly his exit point.

As he watched, Sherlock walked out from behind a shed, stood still for a few moments, and then returned to his hiding place. John breathed out with relief. He wondered what he should do with his time now, and how he could make the opportunity to wander freely around the house.

Several hours later he had a much better indication of the lay of the land. Through a series of five minute expeditions, he'd managed to get a full scope of the house. The top floor, where his room was, was the least protected of all. The windows were nailed shut, but there were at least no bars. He could get access to the roof if he needed to. The floor below contained Brian's room, and what were called 'the maiden's rooms'. Marie and Catherine slept here, as did Sheila and the two children. He got the impression that the older girls were expected to be at Brian's disposal through the night. He thought it best to avoid snooping around these areas in order to avoid suspicion; a concern that was justified when Catherine caught him trying the door that he thought might lead to a cellar. He'd claimed he was looking for a bathroom, and she was naïve enough to believe him.

He had found, though careful, furtive searching, a pantry, and he was relatively certain that this would be his escape route. There was an ancient, frosted window at the back in a simple wooden frame. He'd only seen it for a few seconds before he had to leave, and he suspected it wouldn't open easily. He had spotted a simple fact that seemed to have been lost on Brian though. Small as the window was, it would fit a human being through it, if they manoeuvred carefully enough.

He'd returned to the rest of the group, eager to learn as much as he could about them. The inhabitants were predominantly female. There were four adults; Sarah, Marie, Catherine and Sheila. Sheila was clearly weak at the moment, but he hadn't managed to get a time alone with her to explain who he was. He suspected she was desperate to escape. The other three were fairly benign. Two seemed remarkably foolish or perhaps uneducated, and seemed predominantly eager to please whoever they were with. John suspected that were they to be removed from under Brian's eye, they might be persuaded to their danger of their position.

Sarah seemed besotted by Brian, but John couldn't see that any of her feelings were reciprocated. It was quickly clear, however, that she would defend him to the hilt. The man, Simon, was equally besotted with her. He might become an ally if she was less forceful, but in the current position, he would not. The two girls were hers even if they were not his. The little one, Clara, was very sweet, and happy to go along with anything anyone said. She chatted quite joyously to John about the healing power of God and the greatness of his love. He felt that of all the people in this house, the only one who might turn him to God would be Clara. The older one, Julia was sullen and dark and didn't speak at all. She shadowed Sheila as they walked around the house. Simon whispered to John about her loyalty, choosing not to talk during the time when Sheila couldn't.

Now things were clearer to him, he knew that his remaining job was to try to talk to Sheila.

John's first opportunity came in the kitchen. He'd walked in on the pretext of getting more water, the only thing the inhabitants were allowed to consume on a Sunday. Sheila was there being sick into the kitchen sink and Julia was with her, rubbing her back and furtively whispering. She jumped when she found John had walked in so quietly, and she glared at him.

"Are you OK?" John asked Sheila.

"She's not allowed to talk for a week!" Julia hissed at him. "If Brian finds out he'll whip her again."

John nodded and pushed forward to reach Sheila. "OK, take a deep breath," he said to her quietly. "Monkey-guts sends his love." This caused enough surprise for her to stop gagging. "You need to eat something," he whispered. "It'll help with the nausea. Here, I saved you some bread." He pushed it into her hand.

"It might be a trap!" Julia whispered.

Sheila hesitated but her hunger won out and she stuffed the bread into her mouth. When she'd swallowed, she looked up at John.

"How did you find me?"

"I had help from a friend. Listen, we have to get out, and we need to do it soon."

She nodded. "Julia too. Not just me."

"And Clara," Julia said. "It's not her fault, and she's had no choice."

John nodded. "And the others? Your parents?"

Julia shrugged. "I don't care. They're both pathetic."

She didn't want seem to want to say anything more, so John just nodded.

"OK, there are people outside to help. Is there a way of getting the phones and shoes from Matthew's room?"

Sheila opened her mouth to speak, but noticed someone coming into the kitchen, so turned to run the tap instead.

"What's going on in here?" Sarah asked.

Sheila turned and handed John a glass of water.

"Sorry," he said, "I needed some water. I interrupted Sheila when she was mopping the floor."

"It'll be better when you learn that people need to be undisturbed," Sarah said. "We all need our personal time to pray and repent."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I'll try to remember."

"It's nearly time for evening prayers," Sarah said.

This was met by silence, until John remembered he was the only one there who was openly speaking.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll just drink, and then I'll be there."

"You all will," Sarah said.

John nodded and turned to put his glass in the sink. As he did so, he noticed that Julia was looking at Sarah with a murderous expression on her face. He made up his mind that if he was going to escape, he'd definitely be taking both Sheila and Julia with him. Ideally he'd take a number of the others, but it was becoming clear that time was of the essence here. He'd seen Sherlock twice more through various windows. The second time he'd pointedly pointed at his watch before ducking away again.

Sarah was clearly waiting for him to leave, so he turned and followed her back to the large room at the front of the house. They'd spent most of their time here, sat on the little wooden chairs that were scattered around the room, talking quietly in small groups or reading selected passages from the Bible, or from Brian or Matthew's own writings. He was rapidly forming the opinion that both of them were very dangerous.

He'd worked out that Brian had been leaving to destroy the parts of the world that Matthew did not approve of. Sometimes he suggested this was just to protect Matthew's innocence. Other times, it was clear that the instruction was coming from Matthew himself, and that Brian was somehow enthralled by him.

The front room had now been changed to create a small sort of lecture room, with all the chairs pointing at the front where there were two chairs separated. People were milling around, waiting, apart from Clara who was sitting on a chair at the front, swinging her legs. John sat on the seat behind her, feeling quite hungry, and desperately praying that he wouldn't have another dizzy spell. He tried to have confidence that Sherlock wouldn't have put him in this position if he didn't think he was up to it. Particularly following the several days of illness.

The rest of the people there slowly found seats and a hushed calm settled onto the room. Brian walked in and smiled at them all.

"Good evening. I am so pleased, so pleased that you are all here. And of course, we have a new addition to our family, and we are so glad to have him. John, please come forward."

John frowned, but stood and went forward.

"My child, you have been led so far astray, but you have such goodness in you." He turned back to the small congregation. "I know word has made its way around that John is here because of his lustful feelings for another man. And I know it confuses and frightens some of you. But I ask, which one of us here is without sin? Who can come cleanly to God? John, I can see how deeply you still love this man. I've seen you looking from windows, perhaps hoping that he might appear. He will not, John. He knows that he will never be able to beat the strength of love that our Lord God Almighty has for you."

There were shouts of agreement and some applause from the group.

"I'm so glad that you, my children, agree to accept John into our family. Please, John, be robed like my children."

He picked up from his chair a blue robe, similar to the ones worn by the rest of the people in the room.

"Slip it on over your clothes for now," he said, smiling, and John was grateful for it.

Brian helped him on with the robe, and picked up a thin, white cord to tie it around his waist. Before he'd even got back to his seat, John had evaluated the strength of the cord. As he sat down, Marie patted his arm in welcome.

"We are lucky today," Brian said, "Matthew is feeling strong today. He is prepared to come and speak to us."

There was a murmur of anticipation from the group, and Brian left the room. John listened with his eyes closed, and he heard the lock snap back in the doorway across the hall. He didn't hear it push home again. He opened his eyes to find Brian looking like an excited child as he led Matthew into the room.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

The meeting was briefly quiet. Matthew didn't speak immediately, and when he did, he mumbled insensibly while they all looked on.

There was a brief commotion behind him, and he turned to see Sheila darting from the room with her hand covering her mouth. Julia was up too, and looking to follow her.

"Let her go!" Matthew commanded, and Julia slunk back to her seat with a sulky look on her face. "She carries spawn from the most sinful of men. Let her vomit the evil from herself. Let her spew it forth. She'll never be clean again."

"We will try, Matthew," Brian said in a gently reproachful tone.

"She will never be clean," Matthew said. "The child, however, may have some significance. I see the end of times so close now, so close by. When the child comes, he will be mine. I will take all my children to God with you." He fell silent again. John looked at the rest of the people there. They were nodding, looking expectantly at Matthew as if he was promising them riches rather than death.

He shuddered, and Matthew's eyes suddenly fell on him.

"And you, man, you've come here too with your filth dripping from you." Matthew got up and strode towards John. "You have sinned!" he screamed. He struck John hard across the face, and John had to hold onto his chair so that he didn't swing back at him.

"Clean him!" someone shouted from the back. The call was taken up by the others. "Clean him, Matthew! Clean him and let him stay."

Matthew took John's face in between his two hands and glared at him, baring his teeth and snarling. John looked up into his face and thought that this wasn't a man who should be trusted with scissors or other pointy objects. Hell, John wouldn't trust him with a plasticine.

They were all still, frozen in this tableaux, and John got the feeling that something bad was just about to happen. It did.

Sheila came quietly back into the room, and stopped suddenly when she saw the scene. Matthew glanced at her and loosened his grip on John's face, looking slightly confused. Then he took a step towards Sheila, and John's hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist before he could reach her.

Matthew screamed as if he was on fire, and he fell, kneeling to the floor, moaning and sobbing. Brian was quickly kneeling with him, holding him and talking quietly.

John cursed that he'd lost control of the situation so quickly. He changed his plan quickly, and stood up.

"That man needs a doctor," he said, pointing at Matthew, "and that one needs the police. I'm leaving now; anyone who wants to come, come now."

He grabbed a startled Clara from her seat and pushed her towards Julia. Julia and Sheila were also up, looking scared and shocked, but ready to leave. Clara took Julia's hand and they started towards the hallway. Everyone else stared mutely.

"No!" Matthew screamed. "Make them stop! Keep them here! They're mine!" He darted away from Brian and towards John. John pushed one of the chairs quickly in front of him and backed towards the door. Matthew stumbled on the chair and fell into Simon's lap.

There was some reaction now. Catherine was standing, clutching her face and being generally useless all round. Mary was up though now, and hurrying to John with her fingers tense and outstretched as if she wanted to pull his flesh from him. John shoved the other three girls into action and got them out of the door. In the doorway, Sheila pushed a phone into his hand. It wasn't his. He pulled the door shut and leaned back on the handle, trying to work an unknown phone with one hand.

He swore, but managed to get it to turn on, and he dialled Sherlock's number from memory. The door was swinging back now, and he knew he currently lacked either the weight or the strength to hold it against the combined forces of Brian and Simon. The girls stood mutely and afraid in the hallway.

Sherlock answered.

"Pantry's your entry, get in here now!" John barked.

The called disconnected, and John dropped the phone to grab the handle with both hands, and he managed to get the door closed again. He could hear the screaming from inside the room, but then, from his right, the sound of breaking glass.

Then Sherlock was there. He took over at the door handle and pulled the door shut again and leaned from the handle.

"Get them outside," he said. "Lestrade's in the garden."

"He should bloody well be in here."

"Just go."

John looked to where the three girls were standing shell shocked in the hall, not going anywhere.

"There's no time for shoes," he said. "Come on now."

He herded them towards the kitchen and pushed them towards the pantry. He quickly grabbed the knives from the kitchen door, and took them through with him. He could see Lestrade looking anxious outside, and the girls cowering from the unknown and unexpected face. He shoved the knives through the window, letting them drop to the floor outside.

"John, what's going…"

"No time now," John snapped. He pulled his robe off so he could put it over the remaining slivers of glass left in the window frame. "Have you people here?"

"Yes but…"

"Clara, you first." He picked her up, and was pleased that from either fear, or just from her naturally obedient nature, she didn't struggle or protest.

She was through the window and into Lestrade's arms quickly.

"Julia next," Sheila said.

Julia looked ready to protest, but John cut her off.

"There's no time. I'll get Sheila out, and Clara needs you out there now."

Julia nodded and pulled herself up to the window, with John helping to boost her knees up. She crawled through the window painfully slowly, and heard Lestrade helping her carefully down outside.

Lestrade's face popped up into the window again.

"Get your men around the front. The door won't budge. The window to the right of the door is where people are. Go steady; most of them are unarmed, only two are dangerous."

"Fire arms?"

"No."

He turned to Sheila who was looking terrified by now.

"I won't fit through," she stammered.

"You will. Sherlock did. Just be careful, let me help you now."

She started to move, but they were distracted by a row, and Sheila screamed as Sherlock darted into the pantry at full pelt and slammed the door shut behind him. There was an alarming gash over his left eye, which John noted and dismissed as bloody but shallow in the course of a second. Sherlock glanced around for something to wedge under the door handle, but there was nothing there but a mop, and that wouldn't wedge properly.

"Hurry!" he shouted.

John shoved Sheila towards the window, and she tried to pull herself up. John could see that she was struggling not to pull or snag her belly, flat though it was at this stage. He took a breath to calm down, and slowly and gently guided her shoulders round to fit through the frame. Lestrade, on the outside, was also uttering soothing sounds, and Julia was calling encouragement. Finally she lurched and fell into Lestrade's arms.

"You now," Lestrade said to John.

"No, get your men around the front."

"They're moving."

John retreated anyway and stood next to Sherlock, putting his hands over his on the door handle.

"Who got your head?" he asked.

"Woman with a ring."

"Sarah."

Sherlock nodded. He flashed a wicked grin at John. "Having fun? Is this better than sitting around the house feeling sorry for yourself?"

John guffawed. "And wasn't it perfectly fine, waiting for me for four hours?"

"No, it was horrible. I'm not letting you out of my sight again."

John sniggered.

"I feel we've tested ourselves sufficiently," Sherlock said, "and this was not the right way forward. And it was five hours and thirteen minutes. I expected you to be out after thirty minutes. Forty five at the most."

"Well perhaps if you'd have told me the plan and the schedule, I'd have been better able to work to it."

Sherlock grinned again. "No, I think you did fine in the end. A touch messier than I'd have liked, but fine. And I'm still in love with you, thus proving we can do ordinary things, and maintain a relationship."

"Your definition of 'ordinary' is extraordinary."

There were shouts of 'police!' from inside the kitchen, and the pressure on the door was released.

John released the handle, but Sherlock maintained a precautionary hold. They listened to the sounds of more shouting, protests and scuffles. Still keeping a hold on the pantry door handle, Sherlock deftly turned and looked at John.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"I think so. Hungry. Tired. But there's nothing broken or worrisome, and I'm not even dizzy right now."

"Good," Sherlock said, and he bent to kiss him.

John suspected it had meant to be a brief kiss, but the five hours and fourteen minutes had got the better of Sherlock, and still holding the door handle, he sucked at John desperately. John grinned through the kiss, and took advantage of Sherlock's handlessness to slip his hands around his waist. Sherlock shuddered and writhed, and John grinned again.

"You can let… oh, for heaven's sake," Lestrade said at the window again.

They broke apart and looked at him, Sherlock with a cross frown, but John with a slightly smug grin.

"Let go of the door handle," Lestrade said. "I've got the girls out here, but we could do with your help in the kitchen if you're well enough. Not entirely sure what we're going to arrest them for quite yet."

"They kidnapped John and kept him here against his will. Sheila too," Sherlock said.

"I'm pretty sure that there's a certain amount of child abuse going on too," John said. "Certainly there a fair amount of neglect, and I've seen marks on the older one that I don't like the look of. Take care of her, won't you?"

"Oh, and the leader, Brian, murdered those women," Sherlock said. "You'll find DNA at the third scene at least; he was sloppy there. The second too if you look hard enough. He'll probably confess to the first."

"He's not the leader," John said. Sherlock frowned at him. "Well, he's the most worldly of them, but his son is the one you really need to watch for. He didn't do anything himself, but I'm pretty sure he pushed his father to do the killings on his instructions."

"There was someone in here worse than the father?" Sherlock asked. He looked ashamed.

"It's fine," John said. "I'm fine. He wasn't dangerous in the way that you think."

"Maybe you want to get out of the cupboard now," Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock nodded and released the door. Their hands went up instantly as the police bore down on them, but it was quickly clear that they were harmless, and they were allowed into the kitchen.

Simon, Marie and Catherine were there, sitting kneeling, facing the walls with their hands on their heads. Sarah was there too, sitting like the others but with her hands cuffed behind her. Simon was repeating that he wanted to see his daughters. Sarah was silent.

John and Sherlock walked through the house towards the now open front door. The keys had been taken from Brian somehow, but Brian was still inside, his hands and arms showing signs of a struggle, and shouting that he needed to see his son. He spotted John and turned to him.

"John! Please, please help me! They've taken Matthew. I don't know what they'll do to him, but he isn't strong enough for this! Not yet! Not out there in the world with all of the evil that's still in it! You can help me, John. You can help me rid the world of evil!"

John stared. Then he took Sherlock's hand.

"I really don't think so," he said.

Brian turned savage and he screamed obscenities at them, claiming that they'd burn in a boiling vat of Satan's own blood. John walked calmly past and into Matthew's room. Sherlock looked around in wonder while John quickly retrieved his mobile phone and hunted for his shoes and wallet.

"Are you sure you're OK?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Yeah, I'm fine."

"It's just…"

"What?" John sat on Matthew's bed to pull his shoes on.

"You believe in this stuff. I didn't know it would be like this in here. It's a bit…."

"It's distorted," John said, shrugging. "I mean, yeah, I believe in God, and I think I mostly believe in Christ, but all of this," he waved his arms at the icons and posters, "this isn't God. It's paper and ink and wood and wax. It doesn't bother me at all." Sherlock frowned at him, and John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure I can explain the nature of faith to you right now. Suffice to say, people of faith, any faith, any religion; they're not all as generic as the papers make out. All religions have nut jobs like Brian and Matthew. They all have people like me, who float along on the outskirts, happily think that there's something out there, but not prepared to condemn other people for, well, anything. What you see in this room is not anything to do with my Faith. OK?"

Sherlock nodded. Then Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't understand it at all."

John grinned. "Then don't worry about it. Come on, let's go home. Mrs Hudson will be doing her nut."

Sherlock's face fell. "I'd completely forgotten about her."

John grinned. "Come on. Let's go home. I'll let you blame me."


	30. Epilogue

Epilogue

John leant against Sherlock as they walked outside, and Sherlock seemed comfortable with the closeness. If he were pushed to admit it, John might suggest that he wasn't feeling quite as bright and alert as he might like. They didn't get far, as they reached an ambulance with an open door and Julia, Clara and Sheila all shivering inside it.

"Are you all OK?" John asked, pulling away from Sherlock.

Julia nodded.

"What's happening?" Clara asked.

"Well, people are a bit worried about you being in that house so much and not going to school," John said. "The police are going to check into things, and make sure that you and Julia have got a safe place to live."

"Will Mum and Dad come too? What about Brian? He looks after us."

John hesitated. "Now Julia will for the short term. Hopefully your mum and dad will be back with you again very soon. But for now, you trust Julia, don't you?"

Clara nodded brightly. "The Lord will provide for us."

John smiled uncomfortably. "I hope so."

"All things happen for a reason. I suppose he sent you to us, didn't he, because Julia was so unhappy."

"No," Sherlock said. "That was me, and I had no idea about Julia."

"But who sent you?" Clara asked.

Sherlock stared at her and looked ready for a long theological debate with the twelve year old, until John put a gentle hand on his wrist.

"Are you OK?" he asked Sheila.

She was shivering and huddled into her blanket. She nodded miserably. "I don't know where I'll go now. I had no plan beyond getting out."

"If the crew here say you're fit to leave, come home with us."

She gazed at him, pie-eyed.

"Oh, yes, brilliant!" Sherlock said. John assumed he was being sarcastic, and he frowned at him. "No, really brilliant," Sherlock said. "Mrs Hudson will be in such a stew over looking after her, that she won't have time to fuss over you or skin me alive! Perfect."

"That's remarkably selfless of you, Sherlock."

Sheila smiled wanly.

"You are welcome," John told her. "Richard knows the house too, so he can meet you there. When you're warm and fed again, we can work out next steps at that point."

Sheila nodded.

There was a wait then as Sheila was double checked by the ambulance crew, and while Lestrade talked to all of his men and all of the witnesses. Sherlock suggested they just crept away in a cab, but John made him wait.

He was exhausted and beginning to ache again by the time that Lestrade drove them home, and he found he wasn't inclined to assist Sherlock with Mrs Hudson than he ought to be. After his weak protests of his wellness fell onto her deaf ears, he led Sheila upstairs and found her dry biscuits to eat while the sounds of Mrs Hudson shouting herself hoarse drifted up the stairs.

Eventually the noise quietened, and Sherlock came upstairs looking distinctly irritable, and Mrs Hudson followed him to start fussing around the kitchen. She cooked a meal of rice and fish while John repeated how safe and well he was, and Sheila looked embarrassed and exhausted, and Sherlock sulked in the living room.

Eventually Mrs Hudson took Sheila away, and John was alone with the sulking detective. He went to sit next to him on the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"Mostly for leaving you alone to deal with Mrs Hudson. Do you want to tell me how you worked it out that it was Brian?" John asked soothingly.

"He was going for the people who worked on Sundays. Only the most hardened sex workers; people he didn't think he could change. He was too kind to Richard too. He'd worked out pretty quickly that Richard would have nothing to do with him, and then he started eyeing up me, and then you. He was always on the lookout for people weak enough to gather to himself."

There was another silence as John thought about this.

"I thought you might do better at pretending to be weak and gullible than I usually manage," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry too."

"For what?"

"I probably shouldn't have let you out on your own. I should certainly have given you a basic outline of my thoughts; it was selfish not to."

"You did. Vatican cameo, remember. I knew then that he was the killer. I was a bit hazy on everything else, I admit, but I knew he was a killer when I went with him. I assumed you wanted me to go."

"I did."

"Yes." John frowned. "Why did you? Yesterday you were wrapping me in cotton wool. Today you're sending me into cults with pyscho killers in them."

Sherlock shrugged. "You seemed well. When we woke up this morning your temperature was down, and your pulse was normal. I thought you were well enough to experiment on."

"Experiment?"

"Yes." Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. "I was concerned that when you got out and about and started working again, the excitement of the job might drive away some of the lustful feelings for me. I didn't... I was worried... It just seemed sensible to find out sooner rather than later."

"Right."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Did it?" Sherlock asked eventually.

"No."

"OK."

"I mean it; I was looking for you before I even got out the door. You didn't leave my thoughts for a second."

"Good."

"What about you?" John asked. "Do you think you can still love me when I'm well again and we're working on cases together?"

"I already told you that I could. And I kissed you, which seems to carry greater weight with you than anything I actually say."

John gently rubbed his lips. "Yes. It does seem to."

"It did distract me though," Sherlock said. "Several times I almost abandoned waiting so that I could just come and get you. I was working on a plan to get to the front door when you called me." He paused. "It was distracting."

"So distracting you want to slow down with me?"

"No! I'm sure I'm capable of overriding any feelings when it's strictly necessary. It might just take some practice, that's all."

There was another short silence.

"How quickly did you go into soldier mode?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Hm?" John noticed a strange look in Sherlock's eye. He was looking directly at the coffee table, as if he didn't want to trust eye contact at that moment. "Quite quickly," he ventured. "As soon as I got in the house."

There was a distinct gleam in Sherlock's eye now.

"Before that even," John said. "When we were on the tube really."

The eye flashed. "Tell me about it," Sherlock said. "What did you do when you got into the house."

"Well I needed to reconnaissance immediately," John said. "I divided the house into floors and sections according to their uses and their worth as escape or holding places. I calmly interviewed each of the inhabitants to gauge their threat level, and how much protection they would need. I infiltrated…" Sherlock jerked suddenly at this word, and John smiled gently before continuing. "I _infiltrated_ the group and worked out potential allies. All of this was planned the second I walked in the door."

Sherlock turned to look at him, and he was virtually salivating. Once again, he didn't seem entirely sure what to do with himself.

John smiled. "Would you perhaps like to come to the bedroom to have some sex with John the Soldier?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, and leaped past him, taking his hand and pulling him along as he went.

John suddenly found the idea of three days in Sherlock's bed was very appealing indeed.

* * *

**Thanks for all of your support as we've gone through this one. It didn't turn out precisely as I planned when I started it, but I think it turned out OK, and I hope you all enjoy it.**

**Wishing you all a very merry Christmas and a happy new year!**

**Pip xxx**


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